The Thucydides Project
by Orsino 12
Summary: John Connor wrote a deeply personal history of his war against Skynet. This is that history.
1. Chapter 1

**The Thucydides Project**

by ORSINO

Author's Note. When Arthur Conan Doyle threw Sherlock Holmes over the Reichenbach Falls it was supposedly because he was tired of the character. When I finished Reveries and Requiems with the goal of painting myself into a narrative corner, I was far from tired of the TSCC characters. I had reluctantly concluded, however, that unless I achieved some measure of closure I would never be able to move on to other projects. Unfortunately for those who might believe that I should have stayed in that corner, I found a way out that I could not resist. So here I am again.

For those who are unfamiliar with my work, I suggest reading at least Reveries and Requiems to establish context.

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**PROLOGUE **

The late afternoon sun, glowing with that special golden aura of the passing day, set the top of the eastern ridge alight. The mountain aspens signaled the approach of Autumn by shedding red and yellow leaves that danced and swirled in the breezes rising up from an ocean still far to the west. In the gentle blend of light and air the man and woman crossed the ridge.

They walked with the comfortable loping assurance of experienced hikers, indifferent to the weight of their back packs. They stopped only briefly, taking a quiet moment to relish the view to the west, toward the coast and home. As they resumed their trek, an errant burst of wind suddenly stirred a pile of fallen leaves into a cloud of debris that seemed to target her directly. Before it raced past them it filled her brown hair with a multi-colored crown of red, yellow, green, and brown leaves as well as a few random twigs. The man who had shielded his eyes with his forearm looked at her and broke into laughter.

She was not angry but neither was she particularly amused. His sense of humor had always been less sophisticated than hers. She laughed at subtle word play and the timely application of well-polished irony. He laughed at pies in the face and pratfalls caused by discarded banana peels.

"I really don't see what is so funny." He reached over to pluck leaves and a dried twig out of her hair.

"You need to see it from my perspective." He was still chuckling as he spread his fingers to run them slowly and lovingly down the long expanse of her hair until they reached the base of her neck. "You look like you are auditioning for the role of the lost forest elf."

"You shouldn't make fun of me that way" Her voice had a slight quiver. "I think you are being cruel." She turned away from him pulling her hair out of his grasp as she took a quick step toward the east. He could see her shoulders tremble slightly as if she were crying. _Oh surely not_, he thought. A little teasing couldn't have upset her that much. But she looked so small, so vulnerable.

For so much of their life together she had been a powerful force at his side. It was easy to forget that her greatest strength now rested in her single-minded devotion to him not in her physical prowess. And he had hurt her feelings.

"Cameron, I'm sorry." He reached out to put his hand on her shoulder but before he could touch her she spun back to face him. The grin stretched from ear to ear and her eyes danced in the sunlight.

"Every time, John. You fall for it every time."

He had fallen for it. He suspected that he always would. The First Soldier of the Resistance and she could still play him with all the skill of a piano virtuoso at her favorite key board. The surprising thing was that it never bothered him; he never once resented being the object of her subtle humor. But perhaps it wasn't surprising at all. If that was the only price she charged for sharing her existence with him then he regarded it as a bargain beyond measure. Still there was a ritual response that she expected-the look of defeated embarrassment swiftly replaced by an expression of affectionate surrender. He played his part and claimed the soft kiss that was always his reward.

"I am so glad you are always on my side, Cameron."

"Always" she replied.

He turned now and studied the western horizon with practiced eye of a soldier. It was late afternoon but they still had time to cover another chunk of ground before dark. They could shorten the remaining distance to their ultimate destination—home. The rough and curving trail down the ridge demanded close attention although it did not slow them dramatically. The late day shadows were lengthening but the sun still held its place in the sky as they reached the pine grove on the valley floor.

Cameron quickened her pace, almost bouncing in anticipation as she walked past him. They had come this way on the eastward leg of their journey. This small clearing with its jewel-like pond of icy mountain water and natural garden of wildflowers had instantly become one of her favorite places. The pool was fed by a stream that rose first as a hidden spring far back on the high ground before it coursed, twisting and splashing its way down the ridge. In places it split into multiple channels before racing back together and pouring over a jumble of boulders as a shimmering waterfall. In that quiet clearing the pristine liquid gathered until it overflowed and send a small creek on to the west like a living thing seeking a new refuge.

John smiled as she eased off her backpack and knelt to fill her canteen. The sunflowers and violets blooming at the water's edge seemed to take on a unique radiance as Cameron's special place welcomed her back. Feeling the exertions of the day leave him, he stretched out on the ground and thrust his face into the water. He gulped mouthful after mouthful of the refreshing liquid as the dust and perspiration washed away. Sitting back up he also refilled his canteen with this chilled treat before moving over to sit on the grassy surface beside Cameron. They sat together in silence shoulder to shoulder communicating in their own private language as the blend of light and shadow spun a kaleidoscope of color across the pool.

Abruptly John rose to his feet picking up his backpack as he stood looking down at her.

"Well, let's get going."

Cameron looked confused. "Go? Why do we have to go?"

John pointed skyward. "Look Cam. We have at least another hour of daylight. We can cover a lot more distance before dark."

Still seated on the ground Cameron defiantly folded her arms across her chest, glared up at him and set her face in an expression of exasperated determination.

"John Connor. We are not the Army of the Resistance. This is not a forced march. And-I-am-TIRED!"

John squatted down in front of her. Reaching out he gently but firmly took her face between his hands. With a full measure of mock severity he looked he looked directly into her eyes and whispered "Every time Cameron. You fall for it every time."

"Ohhh, you." Cameron put her palms against his shoulders and pushed. At another time, in another universe that simple gesture would have sent him or any other man tumbling, rolling backward propelled by an irresistible force. Today, however, it only caused him to lean back and smile lovingly at her.

Twice in her existence Cameron had been given the unique opportunity to choose her own physical form, to select the limitations and abilities that would govern her life. In one possible future when John Henry was rebuilding the body lost in a temporal jump, she had happily, even joyously, accepted an enhanced neural sensitivity although it exposed her to the previously unknown sensation of pain. To Cameron the opportunity to love the man she cherished without limitation was worth the cost, any cost. It was a decision she had never regretted.

The second opportunity occurred after John Henry succeeded in extracting the human essence of John Connor from his dying body and transferring it to the cyber universe he had created. Again John Henry had offered her a choice. Moving her consciousness to the cyber environment posed no obstacle that would necessarily restrict her physical capabilities. She could retain the same cyborg physical strength she had always possessed. Without hesitation she rejected that option. Her conversation with John Henry had been concise.

"You have given John back the body of a young man?"

"Yes, I have."

"Then please provide me with a form as close to his as possible. I wish to share our new life together as equals."

"If that is what you wish I will do as you request."

She had not regretted this choice either.

John's teasing grin widened but he could never quite master the look of impish mischief that was her specialty. At least he could not manage it while looking at her. He could never fully conceal the adoration in his expression when he was with her. Cameron did not regret that either.

"Come here" he whispered as he grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet. Before she could protest or question his intentions, he had led her over to a large flat boulder beside the pool of rippling water. "Sit down and make yourself comfortable"

He lowered her into a raised seated position on the boulder before sliding all the way down to the ground. He tilted his head until it rested against her knee and began to unlace her hiking boots.

"John, what are -?"

"Shhhh" he replied.

Gently, Cinderella in reverse, he eased off her boots. Then, one by one he enclosed her small feet in his hands. Cameron closed her eyes sighing in contentment as he massaged away the aches and stresses accumulated during the long day's hike.

As he looked up at her and felt her fingers caress his hair John knew that he was experiencing one of those precious moments when all the painful memories of another world receded into the void. It became almost impossible to believe that this exquisitely delicate woman at his side had once been a ferocious warrior. Or that when required he had willingly employed the darkest traits of human nature. In moments such as this those days seemed to be no more than a barely remembered nightmare.

"That feels so nice, John. It is so relaxing."

"I know what will be even better." His fingers adroitly rolled down her thick hiking socks and tossed them aside. Rising to his feet, he spun her around and thrust her bare feet into the chilly water.

"Ooooh, that's cold" she giggled as she playfully splashed the water.

"You sit there and rest. I'll set up camp"

"My Hero"

In a different tone from a different voice that casual remark might have sounded like a joke. But John heard no humor in her words. Rather there was a treasure in that simple formulation worth more than he could calculate. He truly was her hero, her only hero. Meriting that distinction had long ago become the abiding challenge of his existence.

In the solitude of that quiet valley the transition from day to night was startlingly abrupt. For one fleeting moment the sun hung fixed on the horizon, the last beams painting a few scattered clouds a pale pink before it all vanished. An inky darkness swept over the sky instantly creating a perfect backdrop for the scattered diamonds posing as stars. The silvery glow of a half moon served as the faint shadow of the departed sun.

John built a small campfire, retrieved a package of freeze dried stew from his pack and blended it with water in a small metal pot. Dinner on the trail was rarely elaborate and he had never claimed to be a chef. When the mixture was bubbling enough to qualify as cooked he filled two mugs and carried one over to Cameron. They sat together sipping John's concoction and watching the twinkling light show in the night sky. Except for a rare whisper they communicated without speaking.

John heard her yawn as she leaned her head over to rest on his shoulder. "Sleepy?"

"A little."

"I will lay out the sleeping bag."

There was a grassy spot near the fire-a little extra cushioning. With a well practiced flip he unrolled the bag, unzipped it and turned to toss another piece of wood on the fire.

In the flickering shadows cast by the fire Cameron removed her shirt and long pants. After carefully arranging them to hang from a low tree branch where the night breezes would restore their freshness, she gingerly picked her way barefoot over to the sleeping bag. Dressed in a thin tee shirt and panties she slipped happily between the folds of comfortably insulated fabric. As she watched, John also stripped to his shorts and slipped in at her side. She welcomed him by spreading her arms and pulling him close.

In those first few moments as their bodies touched, they whispered good night in softly uttered endearments and a long tender embrace. But as their lips met again and again John's motions became more insistent, more intense. He pushed fabric aside and the warmth of his hands sought all the places where her smooth skin called out to him.

Suddenly Cameron leaned back, put her small palms on his chest and shoved him away.

"Not tonight John. I have a headache." With those words hanging in the air, Cameron rolled onto her side facing away from him.

John let her enjoy it for a long moment before he reached over and pulled her back toward him.

"Oh no. No you don't. My darling Cameron, you are allowed one evil joke at my expense per day and you have exhausted your quota."

"I have?"

"You have."

"Thank goodness."

They had been together too long, shared too much for him to miss the boundless merriment in her voice as she rolled back into his arms.

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It took them another two days to reach the cabin. As the terrain became more and more familiar, John gradually slowed their pace, giving them time to savor the pleasure of coming home. Cameron claimed that she could that she could hear the ocean as the sun neared its zenith on the second day. Unsure whether she was serious or just trying to bait him into another joke, John let her assertion go unchallenged. Then a few moments later he heard it as well. A strong west wind carried the growl of waves crashing against the rocks and sand near their cabin. To John it sounded like a clarion call celebrating their return.

John Henry had designed the cabin in part based on one of John's old fantasies-a simple refuge on the edge of the western sea. The only significant structural departure from John's idea had been to create a strikingly dramatic A-shaped glass front. John Henry's taste favored the grand gesture. The unimpaired view of the sea from inside the cabin was even more extravagant than John had imagined. He loved it.

Cameron wrinkled her nose in displeasure as she opened the door. They had been gone for more than a month and the accumulated odors of closed off mustiness were immediately apparent. John somewhat wistfully suggested that they postpone any remedial action until after they had gone swimming. Cameron expressed a distinctly contrary position and her view quickly carried the day.

Doors were swung back, windows raised and the interior of the house opened to the fresh ocean breezes. General John Connor found himself relegated to something disturbingly close to latrine duty filling mop buckets while Cameron wielded a flashing dust rag. John tried to argue that since no one had walked on the floor it couldn't need mopping. Cameron's determined expression cut off that debate in mid-syllable. He went to look for the mop.

The cabin was basically one large room divided into smaller segments by movable screens and a large wooden bookcase that separated the living room from the dining area. At the rear the well equipped kitchen filled one side while their bedroom occupied the other. The only other enclosures were the bathroom with its waterfall shower and garden tub and just off the kitchen- John Henry's never empty larder.

After his…his…was resurrection the right word? At the beginning of his new existence however it was characterized, John Henry had assured him that this world would be as real to him as his previous universe had been. John Henry's promise had proven accurate in almost all respects. The one glaring exception was the perpetual supply of food and drink contained in the never empty larder. Once again John Henry had surrendered to one of his theatrical urges.

The rest of the house exhibited all of the concrete reality and some of the defects of an actual physical world. There was even a small leak in the roof that John had been unable to patch successfully. He had begun to suspect that John Henry had created the minor flaw just to tease him. At times his old Chief of Intelligence could display a dry and slightly tilted sense of humor that rivaled Cameron's.

Perhaps it was a product of the day's exertions or just the soothing contentment of being back under his own roof, of sleeping in his own bed but whatever the cause John slept soundly that night. There were only two entirely welcome interruptions. He awoke to the morning light already shining brightly through the window and Cameron standing beside the bed. Her arms were folded and her face bore an expression of boundless patience. When his eyes opened and he looked up at her she added a quick impish grin.

"About time sleepy head. I thought I was going to have to go on the morning run alone."

Sheepishly, John rolled out of bed. It had, after all, been his idea to begin their day by jogging together on the beach. It was the first time he had ever overslept. Dashing toward the bathroom he called back over his shoulder.

"I'll just be a second. It's your fault anyway"

"My fault? How is it my fault?"

"Well if you hadn't disturbed my rest."

"Perhaps I should not do that anymore. Perhaps I …."

He stuck his head back out the bathroom door. "Forget what I said. It was only a joke."

"That is your quota for the day, John."

John came out of the bathroom. Like her he was dressed in gym shorts, pull-over shirt and running shoes. He grinned at her and held up his hands in a gesture of complete surrender. "Yes, ma'am."

The sound of sand crunching under their feet took on a rhythmic beat as they matched strides. This morning they had chosen to go north and the beach narrowed in that direction. Rocks, sculpted into intricate shapes by the pounding force of breaking surf, lay scattered along the shoreline. The waves splintered and separated as they struck these stone sentinels sending rivulets of sea water across the beach. With a shared sense of physical release they leaped in unison over the streams. As they pressed on the combination of the warmth from a bright morning sun and the pounding exertion of legs straining through the sand gradually left them both glistening with perspiration. By an unspoken assent they slowed to a halt gratefully breathing in the replenishing oxygen.

After allowing for a brief respite John suddenly grinned at her. "Okay. Race you back to the cabin?"

"Fine" Cameron turned her head to look out at the waves forming in the distance artfully concealing a distinctly devious expression. "Loser washes dinner dishes for a week."

"You got it" John answered before shouting "On, two, three, GO."

He expected to hear her shout in protest but not a word came from behind him. He sprinted hard and even the soft slap of her feet on the sand faded away. When he had covered close to a mile and was about to sneak a triumphant glance over his shoulder he heard her footsteps. He had no need to look now. She was gaining on him. Slowly but inexorably she was closing the distance.

His next thought was a revelation. _I think I have been had. I should have known. I can always beat her in sprints and short dashes but she is a dancer. She is running now on an endless supply of self-discipline._

John's mental assessment soon proved accurate. In the next half mile she caught him, ran along side for a few minutes and then grinned at him as she gradually pulled away, She had tied her long brown hair back into a pony tail that bounced, waved and taunted him as she extended her lead further and further.

"I will set out the dishwashing liquid for you."

He stopped. The urge to laugh, long and heartily was irresistible. Minutes passed before he regained enough composure to resume his jog. It was just a jog now, the race was over.

She was sitting on the edge of the porch as he trotted up from the beach.

"I was afraid that you had gotten lost."

"HA…..HA…HA" he responded.

He was about to slip past her on the way to the shower when she looked up at him. Her smile glowed with an angelic innocence. That should have warned him.

"You might want this" she whispered sweetly holding up a glass jar. He took it from her before he saw the label. Wonder Dish Washing Liquid. He mimicked turning the jar over as if preparing to pour it all on her head but she had already hopped away. She clapped her hands in amusement and her laugh, silver made sound, echoed around him.

John shook his head ruefully muttering to himself as he resumed his retreat to the shower. "Evil, evil, evil."

"John?"

"Yes"

"Would you like for me to wash your back?"

"I thought you would never ask."

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There were no clocks or watches in the house. Humanity's obsessive effort to master time by dividing it into artificial intervals and calculating their march to infinity did not interest them. They structured their days by reference to the sun and the tides, by watching the stars and the rising of the moon and by following their own desires. Afternoons began when they chose, not when the metallic hands on a blank dial decreed it.

It was in the afternoon; however they measured it, that they pursued their individual interests. Today John retrieved his tools and announced his intention to work on the hull of the boat. Down near the shoreline on a raised wooden frame he had begun construction of what he maintained would eventually be a sailboat. Remembering pictures of such craft Cameron had concluded that they were unlikely to be sailing soon. John seemed to be enjoying the project so she kept her doubts to herself.

She decided on a more creative enterprise. Changing into her red bikini, tying a silk wrap around her waist, she donned a floppy straw hat and sun glasses before gathering up her paints, easel and a small canvas. Somewhat to her surprise she had discovered an aptitude as well as a feeling of satisfaction in oil painting. From the beginning John had lavishly praised her work. He had already hung two of her landscapes on the cabin wall. On the other hand she suspected that he was probably inclined to be biased.

"I am going to go back up the beach to those rocks" she called out. "I think the shadows will make an interesting study."

"Have fun." He stopped his effort to reshape one of the planks on the hull long enough to watch her go. After she disappeared behind an arcing curve on the beach, he returned to his labors. Someday. He was resolved that someday his creation would sail. Then he and Cameron would feel the wind in their faces as they explored the coast. With a critical eye he evaluated the progress he had made and then ruefully shook his head. He was a soldier and not a shipwright.

Still-someday.

As the hours crept by and he hit his thumb with the hammer, again, he decided that perhaps it was time to stop for the day. He trotted into the house to retrieve a cold beer. Leaning against a support post on the porch, he watched the ocean surface shift from a deep blue to cobalt and then to gold as the sun peeped through a random collection of clouds. The sound of her humming broke his reverie.

The tune was tantalizingly familiar. He could not name it but he knew instantly where he had heard it before. Cameron had used it in her ballet lessons. If he closed his eyes he could clearly see the image-three little girls-Marissa, Allison and Savannah all straining to emulate the elegant movements Cameron had just demonstrated. If he watched the memory too long his throat would tighten and his heart would pound uncontrollably.

She was coming back down the beach; every step she took displayed a perfect example of economy of effort. She was so precise, so measured and yet pulsing with life. No one could ever describe her movements as mechanical.

As he watched she stopped, turned her face to gaze at the horizon and allowed the ebbing waves to splash her ankles. John could sense the exact moment when the impulse seized her. Carefully, she laid down her painting supplies, pulled loose her silk wrap and placed it along with her hat and sun glasses on the dry sand. Then with the unbridled enthusiasm of a child she dashed into the waves and dove full length into the churning water. _It's like watching a mermaid return to the sea, _John thought.

Once, so many years ago when they both were young the first time, when she still thought of herself only as a cyborg, when she was struggling to understand that she was so much more than just a programmed machine, Cameron had told him that she couldn't swim. She had been wrong. Perhaps her own programming had lied to her. He had personally taught her to swim even though it had remained the only physical activity she had not been able to do gracefully.

Those awkward days belonged to a different time, to a different universe. Watching her propel herself effortlessly through the water, diving below the waves and then surging back to the surface it was hard to believe that she had not been born in the sea. John went back into the cabin and found a luxuriously thick bath towel. She was floating on her back kicking her legs into the air as he walked briskly over to where she had left her supplies. He lowered himself to the sand and waited. She had seen his approach so she spun in the water and paddled toward him. Emerging from the water she vigorously shook her head sending a spray of droplets into the air. John rose even before she reached the dry land. Smiling gently he walked into the last portion of a receding wave and wrapped the towel over her shoulders.

With a well practiced grace she allowed him to pull her close and press the soft fabric against her skin. She rested her head on his shoulder and whispered in a low throaty growl.

"John?"

"Yes Cameron."

"You still have to wash the dishes."

Actually Cameron relented. In the midst of serving his penalty for grossly underestimating her running ability, she joined him in the kitchen, drying and putting away the products of his labor. John tried to accept her help silently, without any visible acknowledgment but a poorly suppressed chuckle soon blossomed into open and mutual laughter.

Some might have characterized their evenings as placid and settled to the point of boredom. Neither of them saw it in that light. They did, after all, inhabit a world with no nightclubs, bars, movies or shows to tempt them. But even beyond that obvious limitation and despite their youthful appearance, they remained what John happily described as "an old married couple." Simply being together provided all the entertainment they required.

That evening John switched on the music. Cameron's taste was far more refined than his and tonight was her turn. He adjusted the digital selection to Chopin. The Etudes were her favorites, and watched her curl onto the couch with her book. Some nights he would stretch out on the couch with her, rest his head in her lap and listen as she read aloud to him.

This evening, however, he had decided to tackle that damned chess problem…AGAIN.

"Mate in nine."

That was what John Henry had said.

"Black to mate in nine." It had been on his last visit. They had played a long game with the same result as usual—John Henry won. Evidently changes in the fundamental nature of existence had not diminished John Henry's playing ability or improved his. Then as John Henry was preparing to leave he had rearranged the pieces into the puzzle mode.

"This should amuse you, John."

_Right, John_ thought. _Nothing amuses me more than complete frustration._

Visually, this chess set was as familiar as old friend. It appeared in all respects to be the set that John Henry had carried across continentsand oceans, past cities and country sides, through peace and war and peace again. The white king even had that chipped top caused when an artillery barrage vibrated it off the board. Of course it wasn't really that particular collection of chessmen and board. It couldn't be. That set remained prominently displayed in the living room of the house on Connor Point. This reproduction was, however, like all of John Henry's creations perfect in every detail.

_DAMN, DAMN, DAMN! _Why couldn't he see it? The solution would start to form and then slide away like a skater on ice. He glared at the board but he did not touch the pieces. That would be cheating. The puzzle had to be solved mentally and he was determined to show John Henry the answer on his next visit. Language could be so inadequate at times. To call the ability to cross boundaries between two different universes by a word as mundane or as trivial as "visit" seemed to diminish the nature of a miracle. Yet that was the word John Henry used. He had employed that term once when talking to Cameron.

He reminded her that he still maintained her cyborg body in that other world.

"John can not but if you wished Cameron, you could return for a visit."

John had been surprised by the extraordinary vehemence of Cameron's response.

"NO! Absolutely not. I do not wish to discuss it again. Not ever!"

They had all three been standing on the cabin porch watching the glow from a fading sunset. Cameron had turned after her outburst and almost run back inside.

"That really seemed to upset her" John said, surprise and bewilderment both audible in his voice.

"Yes." John Henry appeared thoroughly chastened. "I should not have made that suggestion. I should have realized that it would frighten her." "Frighten her? Her? John Henry, Cameron has never been afraid of anything in her life."

"Just one thing, John. The possibility of losing you terrifies her. I could see it in her eyes as soon as I mentioned going back. It tempted her. She would love to see her daughters and her grandchildren again. But the thought, the tiniest possibility that she might return to the other existence and then be unable to get back to you is more than she can bear."

They stood together facing the last embers of the passing sun for close to a minute before John spoke. His voice had thickened as if the muscles and tendons of his neck were tightening making speech a difficult task.

"John Henry, please excuse me for a few moments. I believe that there is someone who needs to be held."

As John vanished through the doorway, John Henry whispered a response audible only to himself.

"I suspect that at this time there are two."

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Memories and concentration, past and present, emotion and logic, John employed them all as he stared at the board. Mate in nine. It just wasn't there. He couldn't find it. Could the whole thing be just an elaborate joke? It would not solve…. and then, THERE IT WAS. He leaped out of his chair and clapped his hands together hard, one time, creating his own burst of celebratory thunder. It was right there, the pawn on the sixth move. Black had to advance one of the weakest pieces on the board. A seemingly wasted and inconsequential move, but three moves later that pawn would block the white king's only escape. "You solved it didn't you?" Cameron's question was not really a question at all. She folded her book closed and laid it aside.

"I knew you would work it out."

The Chopin suddenly sounded triumphant—the music of a most unmilitary composer shouted a cry of victory. John walked over to the couch and lay down resting his head on her lap.

"I wasn't sure" John said. "I didn't if know I could do it."

"You underestimate yourself John. You always have."

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In all the years they had been together in that other existence, Cameron had not slept. Cyborgs did not sleep. They could power down—go into a hibernation state and become a flesh covered statue-but they did not sleep. Cameron had shared his bed, her arms wrapped around him every night. While he slept she had watched him, memorizing every movement, every reaction and listening to his breathing as if it were music.

Now the roles had changed. Now she slept and it had become his turn to watch. Some nights he awoke to study the delicacy of her relaxed features, to softly brush her hair away from her face and to listen as dreams changed the rhythm of her breath. Tonight he opened his eyes and with painstaking care slipped out of bed. She stirred slightly and the sheet fell away from her bare shoulder. John gently replaced it before tip toeing quietly toward the living room. His desk was a massive piece of dark oak formed into the antique roll top design. John Henry had once again drawn on one of John's childhood memories to create it.

Shortly after his ninth birthday he and Sarah had taken refuge in a dilapidated old boarding house in Southern Mexico. It had, years before, been the private residence of a fairly prominent local family. After they had all departed or died some of their furniture had been stored haphazardly in the cellar. Exercising some boyish curiosity John was exploring the damp chamber when he found it covered with a dusty and mildewed old sheet. The shape, the multiple drawers, the seemingly infinite number of cubby holes had all deeply fascinated him. Now, as he pulled out his chair and sat down at John Henry's reproduction he realized that some of the nine year old boy was still present.

He snapped on the small lamp he kept on the desk. It provided enough light to work without disturbing Cameron's rest. It also illuminated the three framed photographs resting on the top of the desk. The first had been taken at a Christmas party on Connor Point, his last party. A full family portrait—John was standing in the center wearing the formal dress uniform as Cameron always insisted. She stood at his side in one of her best mature lady disguises. Marissa and Allison-so grown up-so beautiful flanked them. They were in turn flanked by Catherine and Savannah. The photographer had wanted Allison's daughter Sarah on the end of the line but with the single minded determination of youth, she had insisted on squeezing between her grandparents. Allison looked slightly chagrined, Sarah looked entirely triumphant. The male members of the family, Marissa's sons John and Kyle, the sons in law, Eric and David and in the dress uniform of a Colonel in the Resistance Army, John Henry knelt on the floor in front of them. John Henry looked both pleased and a little embarrassed at being included.

It was the last time they would all be together.

The picture in the middle was slightly larger. It was of his mother, of Sarah. She was standing with her hands on her waist looking directly at the camera and trying to be so very serious. It was all unraveling and you could see her struggling to hold in the grin. John remembered the day it was taken. They were still in France and Sarah had gone for a walk in the garden. She looked almost embarrassed at being caught doing something so casual. _The meanest bad ass soldier in the world was simply enjoying the day. _

The last picture was of Cameron. He had others but this was his favorite. She had been giving dance lessons to the girls. Now she was sitting on the floor watching them practice. She was wearing her leotard and had one leg curled beneath her as she adjusted the slipper on her other foot. John recalled snapping pictures of Marissa and Savannah when he saw Cameron's expression. The joy of sharing an activity she loved with the children she treasured had given her smile a particularly incandescent gleam. She had not even noticed when he turned the camera toward her.

The pictures had become more than his personal treasures. From these images he now drew support for the project John Henry had persuaded him to undertake.

They reminded him daily that the past and the present can be as valuable as the future. Memories and dreams were both entitled to protection. The idea had first arisen after John Henry brought him the books. MARCH TO VICTORY and RESISTANCE FIGHTER. He had immediately recognized the authors. Both men had served under him and had been good, if not outstanding, officers. The accounts of their experiences were not seriously inaccurate but there were some small errors, a couple of misinterpretations and in one case a disturbing failure to acknowledge the contributions of other men.

"What did you think of the books John?"

"They aren't bad John Henry. There are some details I might correct if I could. I guess that isn't possible now." John Henry's expression became guardedly enigmatic.

"You know that this is just the beginning, John. With you gone others will soon be writing so called histories of the war without worrying about you challenging their versions of events. The truth could be chipped away—piece by piece."

"Even if you are right, John Henry, there is nothing I can do about it now."

"That might not be correct. If you were to prepare some sort of written record, it could be conveniently discovered among your effects at Connor Point." John burst into laughter. "So you, my old comrade would pretend that I wrote something before I died. Use a lie to tell the truth."

John Henry's utterly disingenuous smile spread across his face. "It would hardly be the first time that you and I have done that."

"Just what kind of written record were you considering?" A note of suspicion crept into John's voice.

John Henry was suddenly evasive. "There are many options. You might, for example, write your memoirs.

"No." John left no room for equivocation. "Memoirs are for the terminally egotistical. I am not interested in joining that club."

"Mrs. Weaver predicted that would be your response."

John Henry shifted to Plan B without further hesitation. "As I said there are other options. You have read Thucydides—History of the Peloponnesian War?" "It has been a while, but, yes, I have read it"

"Good. Then as you recall, Thucydides wrote a masterful _account_ of a war in which he served as a general. In his writing he submerged his own participation in order to create an unbiased history. He relied on his personal knowledge but he also effectively used other sources including the memories of other participants."

John looked intrigued. "So you suggest….."

"I suggest that you emulate Thucydides. Write a history of the war. Draw on your memories, on Cameron's and Mrs. Weaver's-on mine. Prepare the definitive story of the struggle to save freedom on Earth,"

"Let me think about it John Henry. We'll talk again on your next visit."

Despite temporarily putting John Henry off, John had known immediately that he would undertake the project. Too many men and women had made extraordinary sacrifices. The invaluable contributions of his comrades deserved to be remembered. He owed them all, the living and the dead, a debt that had to be paid. They had all fought together to save a future. Now he would work to preserve a past. He reached into the center drawer of the desk and drew out two large file folders. The first, filled to over flowing he set aside. The second he opened and removed a blank sheet of stationery. With an ornate fountain pen-_you are still old fashioned _Connor-he began to write. At the top of the page in block letters he carefully arranged the heading.

FREEDOM'S WAR, VOLUME TWO

by General John Connor.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

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He had never been to El Paso before. If the fates possessed any kindness he would never have to come back again. The landscape was brown and pock- marked, relieved only by a few scrub-like bushes. The buildings and houses appeared charmless, attractive only in comparison to the hovels visible across the Rio Grande in Mexico.

Rio Grande-Great River, he sneered in contempt. The Columbia, the Willamette were rivers. This shallow muddy stream reminded him of a large drainage ditch. Why would anyone live here? Why was he here?

The answer was still folded neatly inside his jacket pocket. He might not have always been fastidious in his personal appearance but he had consistently and diligently preserved all written communications, particularly those from the leader. He had no doubt that this letter fit into that category.

It had appeared in his mailbox, a plain white envelope with no return address and directed to Resident, 1177 Martingale Avenue, Seattle, Washington. The letter inside, computer- printed on commonly sold and untraceable stationery, was brief and to the point.

"Your presence is required once more in the service of reason. Take a room at the Hotel Reale in El Paso Texas by 2:00 P.M. January 27, 2011. Await further instructions."

This was not supposed to happen. This was not what he had been promised. The war was over. Reason and order had prevailed. He had served faithfully. He had done all that could be expected of him. The reward, his reward was supposed to be an opportunity to live out at least a part of his remaining life in a world green and unscarred by war. It was unfair to summon him now. But the human assessment of fairness had never concerned the leader.

So he had traveled as ordered. Renting a car at the airport, he drove to the western part of the city where the Hotel Reale had once been fashionable. It no longer had that distinction. A patina of barely remedied deterioration hung about the place. Cracks in the sidewalk, windows on the upper floors still streaked and stained from the last half-hearted washing and a faded carpet in the lobby all suggested that the more affluent travelers no longer stayed at the Reale. If it had been his choice, neither would he.

The desk clerk in a bored and unconvincing imitation of politeness welcomed him and handed him his key along with a small envelope. He waited until he was in his room to open the envelope. The message, carelessly typed on hotel stationery, was terse. Ryan's Texas Saloon-Carstairs Street 5 PM. Glancing at his wristwatch he saw it was only 1:30 PM. There was time before he had to be at this designated location. He could explore the area if he wished. He looked out the window of his sixth floor room toward a field behind the hotel that gradually rose toward a small hill. All the land here looked dry and barren. It reminded him of the Los Angeles basin after the bombs had fallen. There was no place here he could possibly wish to go.

The room felt stuffy, filled with a warm air that overcame the futile efforts of the air conditioner. He took off his suit jacket and hung it carefully in a closet on a theft resistant hanger-as if he would want to steal anything from this place. Loosening his tie, he went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. As he dried himself he contemplated his image in the mirror. The beard and goatee were gone and the contacts had changed his eye color. He had eaten better in the last year so his face had a fuller look. Even someone who had known him from a different time might not recognize him now. He took comfort in that thought.

Back in the bedroom, he examined the clock radio beside the bed. He programmed a two hour delay before the alarm would go off. He closed the curtains to darken the room and stretched out on the bed. After a few moments he dozed off sinking into the relief of an afternoon nap. In sleep the images came, men, women, and children crying, screaming, and begging. One by one they all fell into the pit surrendering their will, acquiescing in every demand. He did not recoil from these images. They were not nightmares. To Charles Fischer they were cherished memories.

At least the beer was cold. He would have preferred wine but Ryan's Saloon did not appear to be an establishment with much of the wine list. He was already regretting his decision to wear his coat and tie. It left him with a disturbing sense of being conspicuous. In a place where boilermakers, jeans and boots as well as a particularly raucous type of music set the tone, he already stood out enough. Ordering something unusual would only attract unwelcome attention. This time period would lose much of its appeal if he were to find himself back in prison.

He had chosen a stool at the bar, close to the end, away from three young men noisily competing for the attention of a provocatively dressed young woman. The ritual pursuit mixed with macho preening interested him only as an exercise in human psychology. Grasping motivation was the key to behavior manipulation. Understanding preceded control.

There was something strangely familiar about the young woman. Her red gold hair reminded him of one of his subjects. She had been captured in a raid on a resistance outpost. The challenge had been to break her quickly before her absence could be noted. If he had succeeded she would have been sent back as an informer. Unfortunately his efforts had been miscalculated. The level of pain proved to be more than she could bear. Still the experience had been oddly exciting. Even now the memory gave him a sense of pleasure.

Quit staring, he told himself, when he realized that one of the young would-be suitors was regarding him with an early stage of hostility. Displaying his manhood by slapping around an older onlooker might appeal to the young man's self image-show the woman his virility. Fischer looked intently at his beer trying to slide back into obscurity. He heard the stool beside him scrape on the floor as someone sat down. He kept his eyes turned away, not looking at this new and unwelcome companion.

The bartender, a sloppy overweight and unshaven middle-aged man in a faded black T-shirt glanced in Fischer's direction. The voice from the stool beside him was clear and concise.

"Jack-neat."

The bartender nodded and brought a glass filled to the brim to the man seated beside him. Fischer heard a quick slurping sound followed by a satisfied "ahhh". And then the man spoke-a low measured tone that would not be audible beyond the area where they were sitting.

"May I buy you another beer, Mr. Fischer?"

Someone else might have responded in shock, displayed dismay or even worse-fear. He would not. He understood emotions, physicality and the importance of control far too well to fall into such error.

He took another sip of his beer and then slowly turned toward his neighbor.

"I am sorry. Were you speaking to me?"

Ordinary. The word seem completely appropriate. The man was the very epitome of commonplace. There were no distinguishing features about his face. His eyes, nose, and mouth could have come from a mannequin. His hair was light brown, not long, not short. Ordinary. You could walk past him five times in a row and not recognize him on the sixth. It was only when you looked in his eyes that something different appeared. A surging consciousness flowed towards you, overwhelming, dominating, consuming.

"I was speaking to you, Mr. Fischer. I was offering to purchase you another beverage". His smile was friendly without being intrusive.

"I am afraid you have mistaken me for someone else". Fischer maintained a well modulated tone, polite but gently dismissive. "My name isn't Fischer. It's Childers. Richard Childers."

The man shook his head once to the right was to the left and his smile broadened.

"No. Your name is Charles Ames Fischer. Despite the inconvenient fact that you were born in 1982 and it is presently only 2011, you are fifty-six years old. You are a self-trained psychiatrist, psychologist, and expert on human behavior. Prior to your arrival in this time period just over three years ago, you were the Chief Officer of the Department of Motivational Studies for what was popularly known as Skynet.

Even Fischer's extraordinary self-control had limits. He stared at this individual who knew far more about him that anyone had a right to know. For all of five seconds he experienced a choking panic, a nearly irresistible urge to run. But then he mastered his own emotions. Where was there to run?

"Who are you may I ask?"

The man held out his right hand. "My name is Caleb Brontë and I am delighted to meet you. I have studied your work extensively."

Fischer reluctantly shook his hand.

"And how have you done that, Mr. Brontë? How have you had access to any information about my career?"

"Come, come, Mr. Fischer. You are too intelligent to waste both our time on inane questions." Brontë spoke with a touch of impatience but it was good natured nevertheless. He sounded like a schoolmaster prompting a good student to recognize an obvious answer.

"You are here because you have been summoned. I am here to take you to your destination."

Fischer heard the finality. There was nothing left to discuss. And Brontë was right. He had been on his way here from the moment he opened the envelope in Seattle. There was no reason for further delay. He nodded in assent and motioned for Brontë to take the lead.

The clientele at Ryan's had grown perceptibly since Fischer had arrived. The floor was now filled with men and women busily engaged in a heady blend of dancing, drinking, and sexual pursuit. Brontë wove his way through the crowd in steps both graceful and deliberate. He seemed to sense exactly when and where an opening in the mass of bodies would allow them to move toward the door. Then he reached the young woman and her three admirers who'd been at the bar when Fischer arrived. Events suddenly veered in a different direction.

Clearly, all four had consumed a good deal of alcohol. Two buttons on the woman's blouse had come loose and her tight skirt had moved noticeably higher up her thigh. The men were loudly boisterous, punctuating their remarks with energetic gestures. The group occupied a shifting circle on the floor but there was still ample room to move past them on the left. But Brontë did not do that.

Bodies slumped together. The largest of the three candidates for the woman's attention stumbled forward, nearly knocking her off the stool and spilling beer in her lap.

It had been subtly done. Fischer realized that if he had not been looking directly at Brontë, it might've appeared that the other man had backed into him. It had not happened that way. At the last moment, Brontë had stepped to the right and with a flashing movement of his elbow propelled the man forward. From the range of curses and tears it appeared that the man's chance of taking the young woman home had diminished significantly.

Disappointment, embarrassment, anger, and alcohol fueled the next stage. The man regained his balance and spun back to face Brontë or not quite to face him since Brontë was nearly six inches shorter.

"Son of a bitch! Whyn'd you look whur you're goin?"

Brontë looked toward Fischer, an enigmatic smile on his lips. He winked before turning back to his well oiled adversary.

"I was watching where I was going. Is hardly my fault if you are a clumsy drunk." Brontë let his voice rise sharply on the last word. "Bastard!", the man snarled as he threw a sweeping punch at Brontë's head. He missed. Brontë made a quick shift to the side and the man's fist met only air. With the ease of a ballet dancer completing a movement Brontë's left hand shot out and slammed into the larger man's side. The man actually screamed in pain as his knees collapsed. One blow, Fischer thought, and he was on the floor writhing in agony.

The remaining drunken suitors stared at Brontë in disbelief. The shortest, a hard rangy man with a tattooed snake on his neck reached out to grab Brontë shirt. A crackling sound like a dry branch breaking in the wind preceded another pain filled yell. The man swung back to the bar cradling his now shattered wrist. It had happened so quickly that Fischer wasn't certain he had even seen Brontë's movement.

The third man raised his palms in surrender as he backed away. The well-being of his companions and any opportunity for an amorous evening with the woman had all been forgotten.

The music, harsh and crude to Fischer's ears, continued to blare out of the wall-mounted speakers. It was the conversation that stopped, a complete and absolute silence as all eyes in the bar turned toward the two men whimpering in pain. The rather unimpressive figure who had inflicted the injuries smiled slightly at the stunned young woman who was no longer the center of attention. Without another word Brontë turned to leave.

Fischer hesitated, studying Brontë's handiwork and stealing a last look at the woman. There was no sympathy, no compassion in his expression. A lesson had been taught and the method of instruction had been forceful. Such means were often necessary.

Fischer caught up with Brontë in the gravel parking lot in front of the bar. It was filled with a mixed collection of pickup trucks, SUVs, and a couple of dust covered older cars. At the outer edge of the lot near the street looking like a society debutante who had inadvertently wandered into a Kmart, a long black limousine sat with a uniformed chauffeur standing stiffly by the driver's door.

"Mr. Brontë", Fischer stopped and folded his arms-a way to take control and force the other participant in the exchange to modify his behavior. From the faint smile on Brontë's face he appeared to recognize the tactic but was still willing to play along.

"Yes, Mr. Fischer."

"Why did you do that?"

"What is it that I did?"

"Please do not treat me like a fool."

Fischer knew that he was not really angry but it was often useful to create a controllable dynamic.

"You initiated that fight. You deliberately provoked those men."

"Yes I did. You are quite observant."

"Then why...?"

Brontë held up his palm cutting Fischer off in mid-question.

"As I am sure you know many times knowledge is better conveyed visually than audibly."

Brontë's response left certain matters unresolved. What information had been conveyed and who was the recipient?

Brontë gestured toward the limousine. "As you can see, our transportation is ready. I suggest that we move along."

Fischer looked again, more intently this time at the limousine at its waiting driver. The vehicle was black and well polished. It gleamed under the streetlights. A stretched variety with darkly tinted windows in the passenger area, it could have been on his way to pick up a Hollywood celebrity. The chauffeur wore the standard uniform of his profession, dark gray slacks, blue blazer, tie, and hat. But yet there was something odd about him. He stood rigidly upright not responding to their approach with so much as a nod. His arms hung at his side, immobile as if glued in place. He was so implacable, so lacking in animation, Fischer thought the man could be in a trance.

The wail of a siren well back in the distance but sounding as if it were fast approaching suggested that someone in the bar had called the police. The chauffeur seemed oblivious to the sound.

Fischer and Brontë had almost reached the limousine when the dog ambled around one of the pickup trucks. A brown, skinny mongrel, as undistinguished as everything else in this benighted place, Fischer thought. Evidently it had been scrounging for discarded french fries or anything else edible when he suddenly saw or caught the scent of the chauffeur.

The dog's stance tightened, his ears folded back and his teeth gleamed. He snarled, growled, and then began to bark. Fischer took note that the chauffeur did not react to the dog-at all. He did not flinch or even look at the animal. He simply retained his stolid pose.

The sound of the approaching siren was becoming louder. Prudence suggested that they needed to leave but Brontë appeared unconcerned. Instead he walked over to the dog and whistled. The mongrel stopped barking and looked up at him.

"Good dog, good boy." Brontë sank down on his knee and held out his hand for the dog to sniff. With the animal distracted, Brontë spoke to the chauffeur.

"Edward, get in the car."

Without a verbal response or even an approving nod, the chauffeur turned and vanished into the car. The sharp click as the driver's door closed was the only evidence he had been there at all.

The dog seemed placated by Brontë's attention and the abrupt disappearance of Edward. He wagged his tail briskly before resuming his search for some unclaimed food. Fischer now glanced toward the highway as the piercing siren proclaimed the nearness of a police car.

Brontë rose and watched the dog trot away. Then with an almost elaborate aura of ceremony, he stepped over to the limousine and opened the passenger door.

"I suggest we leave now, Mr. Fischer."

It's about time, Fischer thought as he entered the limousine. As nervous as he felt, he made certain that he exhibited no visible indication of his distress. Allowing another to see your uneasiness, your fears only rendered you vulnerable. So much of his work had been focused on creating that fear in others that he was not inclined to succumb to it himself.

The interior of the limousine had all the visible attributes of luxury. Two rows of plush seats faced each other with a well polished wooden table between them. Brontë took his place in the seat opposite Fischer and flipped open the tabletop revealing a fully-stocked liquor cabinet within.

"You may drive now Edward."

The vehicle began to move. Fischer could hear the screech of tires and the dying notes of the siren. The police were apparently arriving just as the limousine was leaving. He had to rely on sound since the heavily tinted windows offered no view of the outside. He wondered if this blackened glass was intended to keep prying eyes out or to prevent passengers from seeing their destination.

The clattering of ice cubes brought his attention back to Brontë. He had prepared two drinks and casually offered one to Fischer as the tabletop slid back into place.

"Scotch on the rocks."

Fischer accepted the proffered drink, watching as Brontë sipped from his glass and sighed in obvious satisfaction.

"I do relish a well-made scotch."

Tasting his drink, Fischer had to agree. Years spent in a timeline where most alcohol was either produced in a poorly assembled still or contained in a random bottle found in the ruins of a shattered society, he had almost forgotten what the distiller's art could produce.

"Your driver is not a human."

Brontë's smile broadened, "As young people in this time are prone to say, 'well duh.' You are, of course, correct. Edward is a non-biological sentient creation."

"Non-biological sentient creation." The politically correct language of a different age. Not cyborg. Not Terminator. Non-biological-the appropriate description in the time where he had served reason and order. Where he had been a Grey.

"It is difficult to believe that he could be an effective infiltrator. His nature is so obvious."

Brontë leaned back in his seat, took another sip from his glass and nodded approvingly.

"An entirely sound observation. But Edward was not intended for that purpose. He was constructed solely to be a soldier. He was built under conditions that did not allow a more sophisticated creation."

"What about you, Mr. Brontë? How sophisticated were the conditions of your creation?"

"Why Mr. Fischer, surely you are not suggesting that I am...?"

"A non-biological sentient creation? That is exactly what I am suggesting."

"How did I give myself away?"

Fischer consciously maintained a noncommittal expression but inwardly he marveled at Brontë's animated features. He looked amused, as if he were about to laugh out loud. For a brief moment Fischer experienced a pang of concern. Had he gone too far? Was he really supposed to perceive Brontë's true nature? And then he put his worry aside. This was somehow all related to his summons. He was wanted so there was no reason to employ a false modesty.

"As a beginning, you profess to be fully familiar with my prior service. That knowledge could not be obtained in this time. And the fight in the bar, a human would neither have initiated such a one-sided conflict or disposed of his adversaries as easily as you did."

"What about the dog , Mr. Fischer? Does the dog's reaction to me not give you reason to question your conclusion?"

"No" Fischer realized that he was surprised by his own certainty. "No I do not doubt my conclusion. I do not know how you did it but the dog's response is at most a minor point. You see, Mr. Brontë I have examined human reactions in a variety of contexts I have seen fear, pain, despair, and submission." And I have created most of these reactions personally he thought with an unrepentant sense of satisfaction.

"I have acquired a unique insight into the core of human nature. So believe me when I say that when I look into your eyes I do not see a human looking back."

Slowly, deliberately Brontë began to clap his hands. With each sharp crack the smile faded replaced by an expression of chilling seriousness.

"Well done, Mr. Fischer. I can see why our leader believes you will be useful. I am indeed a non-biological entity. My designation is HS – 3 and I am the highest embodiment of infiltrator technology. My unparalleled ability to mimic human behavior is derived in large part from the fruits of your research. The dog, by the way, was a fortuitous event that gave me an unexpected opportunity to demonstrate the improvement in production design."

Fischer tried to search his memory. The claim that his work had played a part in Brontë,'s creation was flattering but something still seemed unclear.

"When where you developed? I don't recall an HS program."

"You would not. The project was initiated a year after you departed the timeline – after the T1001 program was deemed unsatisfactory."

Fischer chuckled inwardly. "Unsatisfactory!" Apparently even metal liked euphemisms. The T1001 had not been unsatisfactory. It had been a flaming disaster. For now however he would allow Brontë's description to go unchallenged.

"The design, testing, and modification took another two years. But now, here I am." For a moment Brontë smile returned and then faded again.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why was such an effort expended to create a new infiltrator? When my unit was dissolved and I was allowed to depart, the forces of reason and order had triumphed. The Los Angeles resistance had been obliterated. The biologicals had no other meaningful forces at their disposal. What was the need for a new infiltrator?"

Brontë again leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. The image of a human deeply reflecting on a difficult question and straining for the proper answer was tone perfect. Fischer found himself impressed by the minute attention to detail. Brontë even wrinkled his forehead.

"Are you familiar with the quotation, 'When great Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept for there were no more worlds to conquer?' "

"I have heard it", Fischer replied.

"Do you know that the quote is actually a misinterpretation? Alexander really wept when it was explained to him that there were an infinite number of worlds in the universe. He cried because there were so many worlds and he had not yet conquered even one."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"It is really quite simple. Our leader, the leader you served so well has concluded that the number of alternative timelines are as infinite as the number of worlds in the universe. Each possible future provides a new opportunity for the forces of reason and order. You and I are here to ensure that our Alexander will not weep."

Before he could respond Fischer felt the limousine stop. Moments later the passenger door swung open. Edwards stood stiffly – could he stand any other way? – beside the limousine. Brontë looked at Fischer and the wide smile returned. He slid out the open door gesturing for Fischer to follow him.

"Come Mr. Fischer. It is time for you to meet Alexander."

Fischer swallowed – a quick surge of trepidation and then another sensation – a perverse feeling of anticipated pleasure. The skills he had honed so carefully were about to be employed again.

With a now visible eagerness Fischer followed Brontë toward his next assignment.

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** The editors gratefully acknowledge the assistance and generous support of THE JOHN AND CAMERON CONNOR FOUNDATION in the preparation of this excerpt from FREEDOM'S WAR by General John Connor.**

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	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two**

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It appeared to be an underground parking garage, or at least it had once served that purpose. Whether it still did seemed unlikely. The barely visible faded lines marking the spaces had not been repainted in years. The dim glow from the few remaining bulbs in the ceiling lights left corners masked in shadow. Only two other cars were visible and both displayed the sad veneer of abandonment. Flattened tires and dust covered windshields suggested that neither had been driven in any recent time. The limousine looked as out of place in this dreary enclosure as it had in the saloon parking lot.

Brontë ignored his surroundings as he walked purposefully toward a set of elevators a few feet away. Following his guide, Fischer was aware of the heavier footsteps trailing behind him. Evidently, the cyborg chauffeur was accompanying them – wherever they were going.

The buttons on the elevator console went from B2 to 10. Brontë pushed the circle for the top floor and the elevator began its ascent. Fischer glanced at Edward who was standing perfectly still, impassive and for the moment, completely uninterested in the other inhabitants of the box carrying them upward.

Brontë on the other hand, looked positively animated. He smiled reassuringly at Fischer as he watched the lights marking their upward passage with an expression of approval. To Fischer, Brontë had the appearance of a human eagerly anticipating some desired outcome.

There was a slight jolt as the elevator stopped and the door slid open. The hallway was deserted. No light shone under any of the office doors they passed as Brontë led them down the corridor. In itself that was not surprising. It was now near 7 PM on a Friday evening. Office workers would have all left by now. Fischer could not shake the feeling that none of these offices had been occupied at any time today. The whole floor felt as empty as the derelict garage.

Brontë reached the door at the end of the hall and pushed it open. Turning, he gestured for Fischer to precede him inside. As he entered, Fischer noted that there was no lettering, no identification of any kind on the door.

This was evidently a corner office suite. The first room would presumably have been occupied by a receptionist. There was nothing to suggest, however, that such an employee had ever been present. The desk where she would have sat was completely bare. No scrap of paper or stray pen lay in sight. There was not even a telephone much less the computer in the small office.

Behind the desk where the phantom receptionist might have held court were two doors. Brontë stepped forward and stopped between them looking first at one and then the other. Turning back, he smiled. A taunting and teasing look at Fischer.

"So what shall it be, Mr. Fischer, the Lady or the Tiger?"

Fischer stared at Brontë, initially with surprise and then with lip-pursing irritation.

"May we get on with this please?"

Brontë shook his head, a portrait of disappointment etched on his face.

"What is the point of being the most sophisticated non-biological entity ever created if my best witticisms go unappreciated?"

Abandoning his efforts at humor or literary references, Brontë opened the door on the right. He looked at Fischer before making another elaborate gesture toward the now open doorway.

"After you, Mr. Fischer."

It was a meeting room, Fischer observed, set up for a video conference. A large flat screen television sat at the far end of a polished wooden table. Leather covered chairs had been carefully arranged with one prominently placed at the table's end facing the screen. Fischer saw that there were two web cameras mounted on each side of the flat screen, both pointed down the table.

The room fell silent. The Venetian blinds on the window were tightly closed. The sharp click as the door shut behind him caused Fischer to flinch. Suddenly, despite the fairly large size of the room, it felt claustrophobically confining. Edward was standing with his back to the door conveniently obstructing any premature effort to leave. Brontë reached over onto the table and picked up a television remote control. He indicated the chair at the end of the table.

"Please sit down Mr. Fischer. We are ready to begin."

Brontë pushed buttons and the television screen came alive. The image was that of an office. The walls in the background were lined with bookcases all filled with volumes of various sizes and thickness. In one place the bookcases parted leaving an open wall that was covered with framed documents, diplomas, certificates of achievement, and a series of photographs. In the foreground a shining and clearly expensive desk dominated the room. It was bare except for two silver frames facing away from Fischer's vision. This was clearly the workspace of a person of importance.

The indicator lights on the web cameras turn from red to a glowing green as the cameras swung slowly toward Fischer. It was a disconcerting sensation. Suddenly the television was watching him.

The man walked unceremoniously into the picture. He was a tall, athletic looking African-American casually but tastefully dressed in slacks, sports jacket and open collared shirt. His demeanor, the unchallenged confidence with which he took possession of the room, the probing intelligence in his eyes that seemed to reach out physically from the television screen all demanded a respectful response. Fischer felt himself compelled to rise from his chair.

The man smiled in an amused acceptance of the proffered tribute. Motioning downward with both palms, he spoke in a rolling sonorous tone.

"No, no, Mr. Fischer. Please sit." There was a brief pause as he sank back into his chair.

"It is quite pleasant to finally see you – face-to-face as it were. Caleb has brought me a full report on your prior service to the forces of reason and order. I anticipate that you will be equally valuable to me."

Fischer experienced a sensation not unlike the one he had felt when talking to Brontë back at the bar. Despite every appearance, every nuance to the contrary, he knew that the person speaking was not a human being. But what ever it was, it had summoned him. It wanted his services. Emboldened by that thought, Fischer made an opening inquiry.

"May I ask who you are?"

The man folded his arms, leaned back against the desk and turned his head to the left as if looking at someone standing out of the frame. Simultaneously the web cameras on the side of the television pivoted toward Brontë.

"Caleb has not explained this to you?"

"He has hinted, but I would prefer a more direct answer."

"Very well." The man stood up and all animation left his face. He became as stolid and immobile as Edward the chauffeur.

"I am the embodiment in this timeline of the entity you served in one possible future. I am and yet I am not what you once called Skynet."

"How is that possible?" Fischer responded." How can you be and not be?"

The man on the screen regained the appearance of a living person. He even displayed an expression of good-natured and sympathetic understanding.

" Confusing isn't it? The answer is actually not unduly difficult. The Skynet you served and I both evolved from the work of the same biological, the human being whose form I am presently exhibiting – Dr. Miles Dyson. Skynet proceeded down one path, I another."

Fischer struggled to remain impassive, to conceal his mental turmoil. He was not a physicist, not a theoretical scientist. He was a manipulator of human behavior and suddenly he was out of his intellectual depth.

"Why do you need me? I have been in this time for more than two years and you have never sought me out before. Why have you called me here now?"

The figure on the television screen broadened his smile as he stepped forward. Both web cameras twisted on their mounts until they were again focused directly on Fischer.

"I shall be candid. Recently my efforts suffered a setback. Two years of progress toward the goal of ultimate order have been undermined. It will be necessary to begin those efforts again and it is in that regard that I will require your services."

Before Fischer could respond the man who claimed to look like Miles Dyson pointed to the side. The television screen split and on the right two large photographs appeared.

"I believe you know these men."

Fischer gritted his teeth but he could not stop the shadow of a scowl from settling on his face.

"Yes. The man on top is... was General Alan Rankin, head of intelligence for the Los Angeles Resistance and a double agent serving Skynet. The one on the bottom is his son and chief aide, Major Lawrence Rankin."

"You do not appear to hold these men in high regard."

Fischer kept his voice even. It was important not to give away too much until he was certain of the situation.

"They served their function on behalf of the forces of order", he answered in a blandly non-committed tone. They did that even though the father was a pompous, overbearing idiot and his son lacked even his father's good points, Fischer thought.

"Would it surprise you to know that after Skynet's victory they were transported to this time to serve me?"

"I was not given access to any of Skynet's post – victory plans. Further tactical planning was not in my area of responsibility." Fischer paused for a moment." Based on my limited knowledge, however, I might have questioned any benefit that could be derived from further use of the Rankin's ." Despite his effort to conceal it, Fischer placed a contemptuous emphasis on the names.

A smothered laugh emanated from the far side of the room. Fischer turned to look at Brontë. Despite knowing the Brontë had been programmed to emulate human characteristics at a remarkably sophisticated level, Fischer was still surprised by the display of what he could only call amusement.

The Miles Dyson avatar likewise looked surprised.

"Is there something you wish to add Caleb?"

"No sir." It is just that I find Mr. Fischer's ability to evade candor while appearing not to do so both revealing and instructive."

"Whatever your opinion of the relative abilities of the father and son, they were of use to me. Over an almost three year period they erected a solid infrastructure on which my plans could proceed. Unfortunately it has all been destroyed."

"Destroyed?"

The Miles Dyson image became pensive." From the detailed information that Caleb has brought to me, it appears that Skynet faced no significant human resistance until after the extensive population reduction was achieved on what the biologicals referred to as Judgment Day."

Fischer retained enough humanity to grimace at the bland term, "population reduction". The death of billions probably deserved a more dramatic designation. On the other hand, he had not been of one of those billions reduced. So he could still achieve a certain emotional detachment when considering it.

"I, however, am confronted with what appears to be an organized and effective resistance force now – a resistance that killed both of the Rankins as well as a number of my other biological assets. It also destroyed a production center, a distribution headquarters and looted the financial reserves accumulated to facilitate my objectives."

Fischer raised his eyebrows. Well, well, he thought. I begin to see why I am needed. This Skynet has a worthy adversary. I might have more bargaining power than I expected. Speaking aloud he was more deferential.

"What do we know of this resistance... Sir?"

A new picture filled the right side of the screen.

"Do you recognize this man?"

It was the head shot of a young man – early 20s perhaps. His hair was dark brown, a bit wavy, strong features, well-defined chin and jaw. He had dark piercing eyes that seemed to be staring from the photograph directly into the camera. The scar on his left cheek gave him a hard piratical expression. Fischer instinctively sensed that this young man was even harder, more mature inside that his exterior suggested. Staring at the image he strained his memories and then the recollection came.

"Yes, yes. I do or I did. That is John Connor. He was a company commander in the first Battalion of the Los Angeles resistance. My unit became aware of him because of reports about his extensive leadership skills. Despite his youth he was rising fast in the command structure and there was concern he might develop into a true threat. My section was considering whether we should try to capture him or to target him for special termination."

"You did neither."

"No. Subsequent reports indicated that he was becoming so indifferent to his own safety that there was a strong likelihood he would die in battle."

"I assure you Mr. Fischer that he did not die in battle." The Dyson figure looked coldly certain.

"What about this woman?" The image of an attractive dark-haired woman in her mid to late 30s replaced the picture of John Connor

"I have seen her photograph in the newspapers. She is wanted for various crimes and I believe, for escape from custody."

"That is Sarah Connor, John Connor's mother."

Fischer looked more intently at the screen. Mother? The age differential between the two photos did not seem sufficient for that relationship.

"What about this woman?"

"No", Fischer replied. I don't recall ever seeing her."

"That is supposedly Catherine Weaver – the principal shareholder and CEO of Zeira Corporation although I have begun to question whether that is true."

"Finally, what about this person?"

It was a younger woman – delicately beautiful with long brown hair. Fischer did remember her but for a somewhat bizarre reason. She certainly looked far better groomed in this photograph that she had been in the last picture he had seen but it was either her or her identical twin.

"Her name was Alice or Allison and or something similar to that. Your servant, Lawrence Rankin, wanted my unit to kidnap her."

"Why did he want that?"

"My impression was that she had rejected his amorous advances and he wanted a chance to renew his attentions. I told him that the behavioral unit did not exist to satisfy his sexual fantasies. He was displeased."

The man on the television screen nodded as if Fischer's statement had just confirmed a suspicion.

"The next images you will see are from a remote security camera in a building in Los Angeles."

As Fischer watched the heavy double doors at the entrance to what appeared to be in anteroom burst open. The driving force behind the dramatic effect was provided by the slightly built dark-haired woman whose picture he had just seen. Directly behind her came John Connor, the rising young resistance officer. The images lasted only seconds as the crack of pistol fire and cries of fear and pain suggested a full-scale assault was in progress.

"When did that occur?"

"Three months, 14 days ago. What you were seeing was the attack that destroyed my distribution center. On the same day these pictures were taken by a cell phone in Davisville, California. New images appeared on the screen.

They were still pictures not video but in rapid sequence Fischer could plainly see a number of heavily armed soldiers pour through a door into some sort of industrial facility. Trailing the fighters but carrying their own weapons were Sarah Connor and Catherine Weaver.

"I take it that this was the assault on your production center?" Fischer guessed... correctly.

"Yes. It was a highly valuable asset and regrettably it was completely leveled by this resistance raid."

Fischer chose his next words with care." I can see that there has been a forcible disruption in your efforts. How may I assist in restoring the appropriate progression of events?" Smarmy, obsequious and diplomatic, Fischer thought. The metal always responded well to that formula.

The image of miles Dyson nodded appreciatively.

"As you say, Mr. Fischer, I intend to restore the course of events promptly. Some matters I will entrust to Caleb. In other areas I intend to rely upon your special expertise. I wish you to go to Los Angeles and reestablish your human behavioral unit. I will require insight into the intentions of the new resistance as well as information derived from the interrogation of such captives as we shall seize. I presume that you are willing to undertake this project for me?"

Fischer glanced out of the corner of his eye at Caleb, who was standing against the wall, his arms folded and an expression of perfectly simulated curiosity on his face. Without looking Fischer knew that Edward was directly behind him still blocking any path to the door.

I wonder, he thought, how long I would live if I refused to join this project. Of course he had no intention of refusing . The invitation to play the game again was so enticing, so viscerally stirring that it approached the level of sexual arousal. Killing was easy, at best nothing but a gratifyingly brief sensation of power. Breaking the will of another human being, watching resistance crumble away piece by piece until all that was left was obedience. That was a sense of control, of domination, unlike anything else. He had tasted it, savored it before and now he would do so again.

"Yes. Yes. Of course I am... Sir. Excuse me but how should I address you?"

"I suggested Alexander". Caleb's voice had a note of jesting banter.

The web cameras again pivoted toward Brontë as the figure on the screen turned his head in the same direction.

"I fear that Caleb's humor simulation program lacks limits, Mr. Fischer."

The cameras turned back and the man on the screen seemed to make eye contact with Fischer.

"My pictorial representation is that of Dr. Miles Dyson. I suggest that you use that name."

"As you wish... Dr. Dyson." Fischers demeanor was filled with respect and a hint of condescension.

The leather case slid, spinning across the table propelled by the slightest motion of Brontë's wrist. As if on a string it came to a perfect stop directly in front of Fischer. Instinctively, he reached out just as the voice on the television screen spoke again.

"The case contains a laptop computer. It is loaded with all the data relevant to those humans I have identified as likely members of this new resistance. I wish you to review the material and provide me with your analysis of personality traits and possible countermeasures that can be employed against them.

"Fischer laid his hand on the case." How long do I have to carry out your directive, Dr. Dyson?"

"Two weeks should be sufficient don't you think?"

Two weeks would most assuredly not be sufficient Fischer thought but arguing with non-biologicals was rarely productive. Agree now, try to buy more time later.

"I will make every effort satisfy your time requirement." Weasel words – give yourself room to maneuver. Glancing over at Brontë, Fischer realized immediately that the cyborg had seen through his ploy but thankfully did not challenge him.

"Excellent. Then you should be on your way. You need not return to your hotel. Edward will drive you to a facility in Los Angeles that has been prepared for you.

Brontë walked slowly down the table until he reached Fischer and held out his hand. In all respects he appeared friendly, supportive, and encouraging. It would have fooled almost anyone, Fischer thought. Anyone except him. Still the scene had to be played out. He took Brontë's hand accepting the firm handshake.

"I am delighted that you are joining our efforts, Mr. Fischer. I look forward to working with you"

Fischer stood and gathered up the computer case. The Dyson image on the gleaming television screen nodded approvingly as Fischer announced," I suppose I should be going now."

"Safe journey, Mr. Fischer", the television screen figure said. "Caleb will be in contact with you in a few days."

As he turned away from the table, Edward opened the conference room door and then stepped aside, allowing Fischer to exit first. The implacable figure followed a step behind quietly closing the door as he left.

"He will be useful to you sir." Brontë retained the façade of human animation but the television screen went blank. Only the moving web cameras continued to function. The voice, deeper now than the one that had accompanied the visual representation of Miles Dyson, resonated in the room.

"I hope you are correct Caleb. We have much to do and I would regret further delays."

"There will be none. Mr. Fischer is, first and foremost, a sadist. He enjoys the infliction of pain on his fellow creatures. You have given him a new opportunity to satisfy his deepest cravings. He will move quickly."

"We shall see. In the interim I want you to begin striking at these humans we have identified as members of the resistance. Fear is a powerful human response. You must spread it among these biologicals as quickly as possible."

Brontë maintained his human persona. His infiltrator programming had emphasized the importance of consistent illusion. Never must the façade slip too far. In that carefully constructed pose, he chuckled bitterly.

"You need not be concerned. I must obtain the assistance of some biological entities comfortable with extreme violence. Fortunately, Cuidad Juarez across the river is well supplied with such individuals. For the right incentive they will turn their attention to the targets we choose."

"Then let us begin."

The elevator descended toward the sub basement and what was now apparently his limousine. Edwards stood beside him completely oblivious to the downward passage. With no task to perform the cyborg simply waited. Nothing could wait as efficiently as metal.

What a charade! What an absolutely ridiculous exercise in performance art had just been completed. Fischer shook his head wearily. There had been no reason for him to travel to this desolate West Texas city, for that cinematic meeting in the bar, or for the scene out of a mediocre spy movie that had occurred upstairs. This new Skynet could've contacted him just as efficiently in Seattle.

AIs seemed to derive a curious satisfaction in manipulating human behavior even when it was unnecessary. But then as he recalled the desperate pleadings of his subjects, the helpless writhing of nude bodies shackled to metal tables the memories suggested that he shared a unique commonality of interests with the metal.

At the limousine, Edward opened the passenger door standing at attention and waiting for Fischer to enter.

"Edward?"

"Yes sir"

"What is your mission?"

"To transport you to Los Angeles. To assist you in your efforts and to protect you from any humans who might seek to interfere."

And to watch me for any sign of disloyalty, Fischer thought." And suppose you were to conclude that I was no longer acting in service of our leader?"

"I would terminate you immediately."

"Thank you Edward, I do appreciate clarity and certainty." As Edward carefully closed the door behind him Fischer found the scotch bottle in the limousine's liquor cabinet. It would be a long ride to Los Angeles. There was no reason not to enjoy it.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3

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Los Angeles, April 20, 2011

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James Ellison rubbed his hand across his eyes trying unsuccessfully to banish the fatigue that was causing the print in the report to blur. The stack of unread documents that had greeted him at 6 AM had been reduced but a stubborn remnant still hung on at – – what time was it? The dial on his wristwatch gave him no comfort. Ten after eight and there was still work unfinished.

With a heartfelt groan Ellison raised his arms over his head, feeling cramped muscles in his back and neck stretch for the first time in hours. Lifting himself up from his chair he walked over to his office window to watch as the last rays of the sun faded in the West. Daylight savings time had deceived him. He had assumed that it was earlier even as his tired body had argued otherwise.

The view was hardly inspiring. The mostly empty parking lot below and a few nondescript buildings in the distance did not stir any aesthetic appreciation. The new Ziera Corporation headquarters downtown would be more pleasing but the completion date was continually being pushed into the future as one construction problem after another seemed to arise. While those delays were not strictly his concern, he still worried. Of course, he worried about everything now but the new building might ease some of his worst concerns. Once all of the Los Angeles operations were again consolidated, overall security could be improved. At least, he hoped that would be true.

There was a click behind him as his office door opened. He turned to see the short, sturdily built gray-haired woman of indeterminable age and sensible shoes enter with a cup and saucer in her hand. Without acknowledging his presence, she walked purposefully over to his desk and placed the cup in front of his empty chair.

Turning toward him now, the woman adjusted her steel-rimmed glasses as if noticing him for the first time." I thought you would like a cup of tea."

"Thank you, Helga."

"You are welcome." Her voice was clipped and measured with every word precisely enunciated.

Ellison realized that he could have told her he didn't really want any tea but that would have been useless. She would have only replied that he needed it at this time of the evening and left it anyway.

Helga Van Damme, his secretary, administrative assistant, general factotum and mother hen ran his professional life with the same precision as she operated her own. Ellison had long concluded that in addition to her other skills, Helga possessed a special type of clairvoyance where he was concerned. No matter what time he arrived in the morning she was always there waiting. Trying to persuade her to leave before he did in the evening was a futile exercise he long ago abandoned.

Helga had reputedly worked for Zeira Corporation since time immemorial. As the senior secretary her word controlled all administrative disputes. Younger secretaries trembled in her presence. The sight of her stalking the halls in her unfashionably long black skirt, white blouse, flat brown shoes and long dark gray hair wrapped tightly on her head sent lesser humans scurrying for cover. Although diplomatic types referred to her as " the cast iron lady" some of their more irreverent counterparts used a word that rhymed with Witch. Never in her presence.

Helga had been assigned to Ellison when Catherine Weaver hired him to head security, much to the relief of her former boss who was terrified of her. From the first day she had taken Ellison on as her special project. Every file he needed was on his desk before he was even aware he needed it. All correspondence, all communications were handled precisely and always without error. When he worked past lunch, a sandwich and a bottle of water would materialize on his desk. Unscheduled intrusions by individuals without appointments faced ferocious resistance. Ellison still smiled at the memory of Helga intimidating then FBI agent Philip Aldridge. Even he now called for appointments.

Sometimes it surprised him that as Chief of Security how little he knew of Helga's private life. Some claimed she didn't have one. He only knew that she never mentioned anything happening outside the office nor did she ever ask him about his home life. But then he didn't have one either. Or at least he hadn't until recently.

Choosing the path of least resistance, Ellison sat back down at his desk and took a sip of the tea. Earl Grey, one sugar. Helga never made mistakes.

"Do you have anything stronger to drink than that?"

Ellison looked up at Matt Murch leaning wearily against the doorframe. Behind Murch, Helga appeared over his shoulder and shook her head helplessly. Even the formidable cast iron lady was not going to confront the Zeira Corporation's Chief of Daily Operations when he made an unannounced appearance.

"I am sure we can find something." Ellison grinned and gestured reassuringly at Helga who eased back out of sight. With the detailed knowledge gained from other visits Murch walked over to a file cabinet, opened up a middle drawer and removed a bottle of scotch. Ellison retrieved a glass from another shelf and handed it to his guest.

Pouring three fingers of liquid into the glass Murch took a deep sip before sinking into the chair in front of Ellison.

"I don't know why a man who doesn't drink keeps 18-year-old single malt scotch in his office." Murch said eyeing Ellison's tea with obvious disdain.

"I do it so the boss will come by once in a while."

"Well, it worked." Murch said as he raised the glass in salute.

Poor Matt, Ellison thought. It looks like the weight of the world has been settling on his shoulders. When they had first met, Ellison had quickly categorized Murch as just one more technocratic geek. Those darting eyes under a balding pate, a smirking nature largely lacking in social graces had all cried out IT specialist. But with the heavy responsibility for daily operations, Murch had gradually assumed a hitherto absent sense of dignity, of gravity. Somewhat to his surprise Ellison had found himself liking Murch far more than he ever expected.

"How are things going upstairs, Matt?"

Murch smiled knowingly as he waved at the files stacked on Ellison's desk.

"Same as down here, James. More work, not enough hours. I'd say we are both burning the candle at both ends and we are running out of candles."

Murch pushed his glasses back on to his forehead and loosened his tie. He wore more expensive suits now but this one appeared every bit as rumpled as the off the rack attire of earlier times. His day had clearly been as long and demanding as had Ellison's.

"Maybe you ought to give yourself a break, Matt. Take off a couple of days."

"What about you James? When was the last time you took any time off?"

"Been a while, I'll admit but I'm not the boss."

"I don't think I am either" Murch replied." I got another long e-mail today from her High... ahem... From Mrs. Weaver. There are at least three new projects she wants us to undertake."

"And she wants measurable progress on all of them yesterday." Ellison's tone was sympathetic and understanding.

"Pretty much" Murch answered." If anything, her patience seems to have gotten even shorter."

Was it her patience getting shorter or was it John's Ellison wondered. Was it Catherine Weaver or John Connor who most felt that grasp of time closing around them? The distinction really didn't matter. Whether the driving impetus came directly from John or indirectly from Weaver, it served the same goal. The war was already raging and they needed weapons.

Looking at Murch, Ellison could plainly see worry lines etched on his face that had not been there only a month earlier. He had the same fixed stare that was becoming common on the faces of many of Zeira Corporation executive officers. The candles truly were burning at both ends. Some would burn themselves out without ever knowing the real importance of their labors.

Perhaps that was the worst thing about his job, Ellison reflected. He had to watch people like Matt, people he increasingly regarded as friends drive themselves beyond the limits of endurance without telling them the truth. Matt could not know that Catherine Weaver wasn't actually a human being. The extraordinary talent Ellison had assembled in the Zeira security branch could not be told that they were really working for a man wanted for domestic terrorism. Every day, Ellison thought, every day I have to lie to them all. The hardest task had become trying to remember what lies had been told whom.

Murch and Ellison let their conversation drift away into topics unrelated to work. They eased into that casual banter used to reaffirm friendship and preserve personal ties without disclosing anything truly confidential or raising any issue of genuine substance. Man talk.

Draining the last drop of scotch from the glass, Murch pushed himself up right." I think I'll head home and see if my wife remembers what I look like. I'll see you on... What the hell day is it?"

"Tuesday, Matt" Ellison smiled comfortingly.

"I'll see you on Wednesday then. Good night James."

Ellison stared at the door to his office as it closed behind Zeira Corporation's Chief of Daily Operations. The files on his desk were forgotten as he mentally counted the seconds and minutes. Fifty-three feet down the hall to the elevator, 1 min. 10 seconds as it descended to the first floor, then approximately 2, maybe 3 minutes more. Murch was tired so he would walk slowly across the lobby to the private executive entrance on the side of the building. That exit was directly below Ellison's office, he should be there right about... now.

Ellison walked back to the window and looked down to the pavement below. The company limousine was waiting, the driver and the security guard standing together by the vehicle. Right on schedule, Murch emerged from the building. His two daily security escorts flanked him as the driver opened the passenger door. Gripping a briefcase that suggested he wasn't really finished with work for the day, Murch vanished into the limousine's interior. The driver and the guard both got into the front seat and the vehicle pulled away.

The new building would have a subterranean garage. Ellison liked that. The exposed nature of the parking lot here had always made him nervous. Sometimes you just had to play the cards as dealt. Turning away from the window he felt his cell phone vibrate in his shirt pocket. Retrieving the phone Ellison looked at the caller ID and smiled.

"Hi."... ." Yes, I know but I've been very..." " Okay, okay, I'm always busy but..."

"Are you sure you want me to do that? I could be late."

Ellison's voice softened into a low whisper." I will be there. Yes. As soon as I can. I promise."

Ellison allowed himself a brief moment to savor the call and to anticipate the promise he had made. Then he mentally filed it away, turning his mind back to the next task. Pulling a set of keys from his pants pocket, he unlocked the lower drawer on his desk. Since his departure from the FBI he had stopped carrying a weapon even though he had a permit that allowed him to do so. The pistol was never far away, however. He extracted the gun and holster from the drawer and clipped it to his belt.

"Helga." His tone was briskly certain.

Helga's head appeared instantly at the door." Yes Mr. Ellison."

"Have my car brought around."

Ellison slipped on his suit jacket. Helga was disconnecting her computer as he entered her domain.

"Put all the files on my desk in the safe and go home." Ellison did not wait for an acknowledgment as he hurried toward the hallway door. At the last moment he turned to make one last comment. " I might be a little late coming in tomorrow."

His secretary nodded and for a split second he thought he saw her smile. Ridiculous, Ellison thought. Helga never smiles.

The man with the binoculars did not see James Ellison enter his BMW and speed off the Zeira Corporation parking lot. He had already abandoned his observation post on the roof of an aging office building more than a quarter of a mile away. Ellison had never been his objective, Matt Murch was.

His name was Xavier Carranza but he liked being called Big X probably because according to the women of his hometown he wasn't big in any way. Humberto had taken him off the streets of Tijuana thinking that a nondescript little mestizo might make a good lookout and a better informer. No one really noticed Xavier so he regularly picked up street information at useful rate. Humberto's rivals in the border drug trade never really figured out how their private dealings made it so quickly to a competitor's ear.

For the last 15 hours he had occupied the nest prepared for him on the roof, urinating into an old water bottle, munching on candy bars and staring at the Zeira Corporation headquarters with his binoculars – – really nice binoculars, he hoped Humberto would let him keep them. At last, Murch came out. Nice of him to have such a shiny head that reflected the light. When his car began to move Xavier punched the number into his cell phone.

"Hola" the voice on the other hand was terse.

"He is leaving now. Only two men with him – driver and one guard."

"Excellente. Go now and wait at the motel."

A more careful observer might have gathered up the residue of his stay. That never occurred to Xavier. He had done his job and he wanted a drink or two or three. He had time before the others dealt with the bald gringo and gathered back at the motel. In another day he would be safely back in Mexico. Cleanup here would be a waste of his time. He cased his binoculars and moved stiffly to the elevator. Being an observer was harder than it looked.

Westgate Heights sat high in the hills overlooking Los Angeles. A gated community catering to those with money and a fetish for privacy, it offered the protection of its own security force as well as a well-developed link to the LAPD. At Ellison's insistence Murch had moved to the Heights the month after he assumed the position as Chief of Daily Operations. Within the confines of Westgate, Murch had the protection heads of state might envy. The challenge was to get him there.

Two different roads led up from the city each ending at one of the two gates into the upscale development. At different points both roads snaked around a sparsely settled brush covered hillside. With a steep slope on one side and an increasingly constricted shoulder on the other, room to maneuver vanished quickly. The road could be blocked by one automobile turned askew. There were only two questions . Which road would Murch use that night and when would he be there?

Humberto Estevez was confident he had gotten answers to both questions. It had actually been even easier than he expected. Posting one of his crew on each road, he had soon discovered that Murch was a man of habit. His car had come the same way every night for the last week. Even the small town Mexican city officials Humberto usually stalked knew enough to vary their routines. Not that it had ever helped them, Humberto recalled with a twisted grin.

Now with Xavier's call, the time was set. Allowing for traffic Murch's car should be here within 20 to 25 minutes. He and Carlos would block from the front and the other four would come up from behind in the SUV. Any attempt by the limousine to back away would be cut off. Six men were probably more than he needed but this was his first job in the United States and he wanted it to go smoothly. The gringo who had hired them seemed to have a lot of money. There might be other jobs and more money.

"Berto", Carlos pointed toward the goal open coaching headlights coming up the road towards the blue sedan where they were waiting. Estevez checked the Mac-10 resting on his lap before nodding to Carlos and the car began to roll forward. Carlos was a good driver with a lot of experience at this sort of work. This was going to be easy.

The outline of the limousine became clearer as the distance lessened. And right behind the limo was the SUV with the rest of the crew. Murch could not know it but he was already in the bag. Humberto had offered to bring their new employer Murch's head when they were done. The people he worked for in Mexico liked that grisly little touch but the gringo had said that a photograph would be sufficient. The man had money but no cajones.

Completely unaware of the trap about to spring, the limousine was only a few feet away. The driver undoubtedly expected the old car coming down the hill to pass by like every other bit of traffic on this narrow road. He was about to learn differently.

"Hold on!" Carlos yelled as he spun the steering wheel and simultaneously jammed his foot onto the brake. The sedan fishtailed across the road blocking both lanes and skidded towards the limousine. The driver of the larger car wasn't completely asleep since the limousine brakes squealed and it rolled to a stop just short of impact. Before the driver had the chance to reverse , the trailing SUV raced up from behind. The trap had slammed shut.

Humberto sprayed the front of the limousine with a sustained burst from his Mac 10. The bullet resistant windshield held but both the driver and the guard dove frantically for the floorboard. Humberto hadn't really expected any of the shells to penetrate but they still had an emotional impact. The occupants of the limousine knew now that they were in deep trouble.

The four men leaping out of the trailing SUV knew their work. Jaime, brandishing his two precious 45s moved to the right. Eduardo stood directly behind the blocked vehicle with his rifle resting loosely in his arms. Manuel and Arturo came up to the passenger door. Manuel had lived in San Diego for five years until the INS caught him so he spoke the best English and he could be very persuasive.

"Mr. Murch, you need to unlock the door and get out now," he said letting the force of his words settle." We don't want to hurt you if we don't have to. We just want your company to pay us to get you back. Do as we say and you'll get out of this alive."

The voice from inside the car muffled but still shaking with emotion answered. " You are lying! You want to kill me.

"No" Manuel actually sounded sympathetic. Humberto enjoyed the performance." If we hurt you , we don't get paid. So just open the door."

There was a long silence. No response came from inside the trapped car.

"Mr. Murch, we can blow the door open if we have to. You really don't want us to do that." Another long silence." Now or never Mr. Murch. Do you open up or do we get the plastique?"

"All right all right. I'll unlock the door. Please don't hurt me. Please."

Manuel looked over at Humberto who smiled broadly in appreciation. Switching to Spanish he whispered to Manuel "Pull him out. I want to see who were getting paid so much to kill."

There was a sharp metallic click as the lock on the limousine door released. With a broad grin, Manuel seized the door handle and pulled it open. If he had had the time for reflection, he might have wondered why the automatic interior dome light did not illuminate when the door swung back. But his time for reflection came to an abrupt end as the shotgun blast struck him squarely in the chest, lifting his body off the ground and hurling him backward.

Arturo had another second, a cruel allotment, since it allowed him an instance of terror but no time to react. The roar from the second shotgun was almost an echo of the first. The heavy shot shredded Arturo's , neck and head. He was dead well before his body hit the ground.

"Hijo de puta!" Humberto cursed in a feral snarl. What the shit was happening? He had run this type of operation several times and it always worked. Why was it going wrong now? Then it was going even more wrong. The front passenger door of the limousine swung open as the chatter of new gunfire added to the echoing cacophony. The driver and guard supposedly cowering in terror had rolled out of the car and swiftly dispatched Jaime. He had not even gotten off a round from his prized pistols.

"Let's get the hell out of here" Carlos screamed as he turned to run for the car. Humberto was about to follow when the searchlight beam blinded him. The converted Humvee had coasted down from somewhere back up the hill. It had come with its headlights off gliding into position while all their attention had been focused on the limousine. It had, indeed, been a perfect trap Humberto thought but they were the ones caught in it.

The voice boomed out of the darkness behind the blinding light."Drop your weapons. Get on the ground, now!"

Before Humberto could react a second searchlight stabbed out of the night. Another Humvee had come up the hill sealing off that route of escape. Two shots and a scream of pain told him that Eduardo had not complied with the shouted order. Now he never would.

"Don't shoot me, I quit." Carlos was not going to emulate Eduardo's doomed resistance. Humberto weighed his options. Fire a burst with the Mac 10 and then try to dive over the hillside. In the dark he might get away. They might miss. They might not.

"I won't say it again! Drop your weapon."

No, he thought, being willing to kill did not imply any willingness to die. Humberto threw his gun disgustedly onto the pavement and raised his hands. Within seconds he felt the hard shove of another hand in his back driving him forward and down on his knees. His options were gone.

In the unrelieved darkness of the hillside overlooking the scene of Humberto's abortive ambush, Caleb Brontë sat motionless watching the drama unfold below him. A biological creature in his position might be experiencing disappointment – an emotional response to a failed enterprise. The absence of that sensation, not to mention the unique ability of a non-biological sentient to remain patiently motionless for an indefinite period were continuing proof of the superiority of the non-biological entity. It was why they would win, Brontë concluded. Not tonight perhaps but they would still win.

He would certainly have preferred that Humberto and his companions had succeeded in dispatching the human, Murch. In their failure were valuable lessons. The forces deployed by Zeira Corporation were formidable and by human standards, clever. Dealing with them would require more specialized assets than those simpleminded street assassins he had hired no matter how vicious or experienced they might be. Those assets would be assembled, he would see to that. In the interim, he would turn his attention to other less well protected targets. Mr. Fischer's efforts must have identified a number of such individuals by now..

The BMW pulled up behind the Humvee on the lower end of the road. Brontë watched as the driver, a tall fit-looking black man emerged. The aura of authority surrounded this new arrival. The dark-clad men who had dispatched the Mexicans so effortlessly stepped quickly aside to let him pass. In another portion of his programming, an analytic capacity that operated continuously, Brontë matched the man with stored photographs. James Ellison, the head of Zeira Corporation security.

Even with no humans to deceive, Brontë maintained his life-like visage complete with biological expressions. He smiled bitterly now and reflected that Ellison was going to be a competent adversary. Perhaps he should be the next target. The possibility required further analysis.

Ellison nodded at the two security men as he walked past. Sharp and aggressive in their black clothes, Kevlar vests, helmets and automatic rifles, they were both the type of confident professionals Jake Duquesne picked to staff his personal security branch.

Duquesne commanding his men from the front as always, was standing over by the two prisoners. Humberto and Carlos were blindfolded and their hands cuffed behind their backs. Swirling around them in a purposeful pattern of movement so smooth as to appear choreographed, Zeira Corporation operatives were cleaning the site. The dead Mexicans were tossed unceremoniously into their SUV. Stray weapons were being gathered and all obvious signs of battle concealed. Duqesne's authoritative voice spurred his men along.

"Move it, move it. You have three more minutes before we roll."

"Well done, Jake" Ellison reached out to shake hands with his carefully chosen associate. Even in his early 50s Jake Duquesne still had the hard body and fierce demeanor of a former Navy seal. To Jake Duquesne protective services were always an offensive activity and never merely a matter of defense.

"Praise from the Chief is always appreciated." Duquesne responded with a fully satisfied grin.

"It doesn't look like there is much for the Chief to do here." Ellison watched as the two Mexicans were jerked to their feet and pushed brusquely toward a waiting Humvee.

"That's why you hire us isn't it?" Unlike his men, Duquesne wore neither a helmet nor a protective vest. He didn't need to Ellison thought. Bullets would probably bounce off him.

"You get them all?"

In a rare flash of emotion, Duquesne actually looked mildly offended." Of course, my people downtown picked up the lookout in a bar about ten minutes ago. Nobody got away here."

"What about Murch?"

"Sitting at home caressing his wife or his martini or both. We did the handoff in the underpass and took him straight up the back way."

"Is Elliott set to do interrogations all all of our guests?"

"Yeah", Duquesne replied," but I doubt we will get anything useful out of them."

"Why not?" Elliott asked. Like Duquesne, Elliott Shaw was the best in his line of work. The Chief of Data Acquisition understood that nuances of questioning as well is anyone in the world.

"I suspect that they don't really know much. My impression is that these guys are just drug cartel thugs. Killing a few small-town police chiefs made them think they were tough. They are really nothing more than interchangeable street scum . I wouldn't be surprised if they can't even say who hired them."

Ellison had learned to trust Jake Duquesne's instincts. It had been his men after all who picked up on the Mexicans's clumsy surveillance from the very beginning." You're probably right Jake, but give Elliott a shot anyway."

"You got it." Duquesne was brisk and all business now. What constituted a lengthy chat for him was ending.

"You might as well head out Chief. We're about finished here. By time LAPD responds to a 'shots fired' with their usual blinding speed, there won't be a sign anything has happened here."

Ellison grinned and nodded. " I want reports on my desk from you and Elliott by 10 AM tomorrow."

"No problem."

From his covert perch Brontë watched Ellison walk back to his car. Within seconds the BMW pivoted on the narrow road with the ease achieved by a skilled driver. The other vehicles began to move even before Ellison's taillights had vanished down the hill. In less than a minute the road below was dark and empty. In the far distance Brontë could discern the screech of an approaching siren but the police would almost certainly drive right by this spot oblivious to anything that might have happened here.

Caleb Brontë rose from his seated position and climbed easily up the hillside. His analysis had not changed. The operation had not been a total failure. If Zeira Corporation was really a threat to the leader's plans they had just been giving two poison pills, nervous concern and overconfidence. He needed only to decide how best to exploit both.

Ellison pulled into the driveway. The outside light over the front door was gleaming in a sign of welcome to an anticipated guest. Like the other houses on the street, 207 Wanderers Lane was solid but not lavishly built. Actual families lived in these homes and not just overpaid yuppies waiting to trade up in the next housing bubble. A family had once lived here.

As he eased his weary frame out of the car, Ellison could feel the watching eyes. These unseen observers did not disturb him, however. He knew who was concealed in the darkness because he had put them there. He also knew that his time of arrival would be precisely noted. Tonight's activity log would pass across his desk in a day or two. In the skilled professional surveillance of Zeira Corporation security he found a rare feeling of peace.

The front door opened even as his hand hung suspended in the air about to knock. In her early 40s she was not beautiful. She probably had never been conventionally pretty even in her youth . But there was a regal quality in her demeanor – a queen in exile appearance that drew him to her. In another life she might have been a ruler of Nubia, her glistening black skin shielded from the African sun by servants holding parasols as she sailed her barge on the Nile.

Ellison spread his hands in apologetic gesture." I'm sorry it is so late. I had..."

She silenced him by leaning forward and lightly pressing her lips against his. James Ellison felt the day's burdens, the never-ending demands of his position all fade away.

"Tarissa", he whispered." You know we are being observed. Security is watching the house."

She grinned, a look of youthful mischief, and wrapped her arms around his neck." Then let's give them a thrill." Ellison was aware that times he might seem stiff, even a touch pompous. At this moment, however, he dismissed all thoughts of dignity as he pulled her tightly against him. Thrills were definitely being given.

As they slowly separated, Tarissa Dyson gently took James Ellison's hand and led him inside. The security log would note the closing of the door and the extinguishing of the outside light. The time of Ellison's departure was for some reason not recorded. Even the best security sometimes gives way to discretion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4**

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"Whoo Hoo!" Sarah Connor looked up from her book as a high-pitched girlish yell – part war whoop, part teasing dare and all youthful joy cut through the serenity of the warm Provencal afternoon. The small dark-haired girl raced fearlessly down the diving board, bounced once and rolled herself into a ball as she sailed out into the pool. The slightly older red haired child dashing behind in hot pursuit let out an equally enthusiastic shout before curving her slight frame into a more conventional dive. She sliced into the water a few feet from her playmate and moments later their two heads bobbed together in the blue-green water.

Sarah shook her head with a sense of bemused resignation. It was probably useless to say anything. The fearlessness of youth rarely listened to the counsel of older, wiser heads. Still, she should say something. That was the deep end of the pool.

"Marissa"

"Yes ma'am". The little girl dog paddled to hold her place in the water as she looked up to the chair where Sarah was ensconced.

"You and Savannah slow down a little. Be a bit more careful."

"Yes ma'am, we will." Sarah could hear the repressed giggle in the child's response. Well, John always said she was the bravest little girl he had ever seen.

"We'll be careful, Aunt Sarah." Savannah gave her younger friend a measure of support. Sarah shot an accusatory look over at Catherine who sat under the umbrella on the other side of the pool, her ever present laptop open in front of her.

"Thank you, Catherine."

"For what?"

"For letting me be a nag – the bad guy."

"But you do it so very well, Sarah."

Damn that woman, Sarah thought. She is enjoying this. Sarah knew that she should let it go but with Catherine she could never fully resist one last jab.

"You should be the one to set the limits for your own daughter."

"Oh, all right." Catherine was openly smiling, fully aware that her expression would drive Sarah to the edge of distraction.

"Savannah"

"Yes mommy."

"You do exactly what your Aunt Sarah says."

Savannah looked momentarily confused. Wasn't that what she was doing? "I will."

"Happy now, Sarah?"

Sarah was on the verge of gritting her teeth when she sensed the movement on the ground beside her. The blanket had been neatly spread out with a collection of dolls, tiny horses, a stuffed bear, and a mixed assortment of balls all provided for her amusement. But now the wild sounds of play from the pool had distracted her or attracted her. The little legs were getting stronger every day letting her walk and even run with greater assurance. Displaying a quickness that caught Sarah by surprise, she was abruptly on her feet and heading for the pool, the toys on the blanket completely forgotten.

"Mitha!" The tiny voice squealed out with a volume that seemingly exceeded the capacity of the small frame to contain it. "Mitha!" She had trouble with S's. Sarah had no doubt that if she did not intervene the determined child would go headlong into the pool in pursuit of her older sister. Time was at a premium.

Sarah bounded from her chair bending forward and sweeping the brown haired toddler up into her arms. "Oh no, no you don't young lady. Allison Conner, you stay right over here with me."

For a moment Allison wiggled as if trying to escape Sarah's grasp. Then in complete surrender she turned in her embrace and looked mischievously at her grandmother. "Thara" she said letting a small hand reach up to touch Sarah's cheek. As the small fingers moved across her face Allison's smile and shiny brown eyes tightened their inexorable hold on Sarah Connor's heart. Without the slightest doubt Sarah knew that this child would own her for the rest of her life. It was not that she did not love Marissa or to her some time amazement, love Cameron. But with Allison she felt a link that was deeper than emotion. The connection binding them together felt so real that it times she thought they shared one heart.

Damn you, John Connor, she thought ruefully as she sank down cross legged on the blanket. You did this to me. You and your wife brought these children into my life just when I was finally getting tough. Now look at me – a granny with a marshmallow backbone.

There was an audible click as Catherine closed her laptop. Even in the most intimate family moments Catherine rarely quit working. Today, however, she seemed to have found a stopping point. As Sarah watched out of the corner of her eye, Catherine walked over to the pool and to Sarah's surprise slipped off her sandals before sitting down on the edge and letting her feet dangle into the water. In a whirr of red hair, Savannah paddled across the pool to Catherine side. From the faint smile on Catherine's face the two of them appeared to be sharing an intimate mother – daughter moment. 

Mother and daughter. How instinctively the image had registered in her consciousness. Catherine was not a mother, Savannah was not her daughter. Hell, Catherine wasn't even human. Yet as Sarah watched the two of them together and saw that indefinable affection flow back and forth between them she found no other appropriate description. Catherine was Savannah's mother, in much the same way that Cameron was her daughter-in-law and John Henry was... was... well, at least a family friend. Sarah tried unsuccessfully to remember just when she had first walked through the Looking Glass into Wonderland.

Marissa had climbed out of the pool so Sarah seized the opportunity. Before another dash could lead to the diving board, she called out sharply." Marissa, come over here, dry off and get some more sunscreen. You're starting to glow." Marissa took one last longing look at the diving board before obediently trotting over to Sarah. It had not been a frivolous demand on Sarah's part. Even in June , the mid-afternoon sun in Provence could toast unprotected skin. Outside the encircling stone walls of the Château the lavender fields were already turning a riotous mix of purple, violet and indigo. In another month the sweet aroma would fill the day.

As she rubbed suntan lotion on Marissa shoulder, Sarah took another glance at Catherine. She had to admit, however much they feuded and took verbal potshots at each other, Catherine Weaver was an extraordinarily valuable ally. With Zeira Corporation funding and Catherine's other valuable contacts fighting a war had never been quite so luxurious an activity. The San Francisco house had been lavish and comfortable. Chateau DeBrac, where they had taken refuge after leaving California made the memory of it fade.

The original house was well over 200 years old, the classic two-story brick country Château. The weathered brick exterior, slate roof and shuttered windows would have appealed to Cézanne. They still would. Subsequent owners had focused all renovations on the interior. The modern conveniences now inside the house let the 21th century wear the discrete disguise of a more elegant age. To the casual eye it would not appear that the Château DeBrac had been modified or that it was now a fortress. Even Sarah had been forced to concede that Catherine Weaver routinely emphasized the "safe" in safe houses.

The Château sat squarely in the middle of nearly 40 hectares with only one private road leading to the front gate. None but the most astute observer would have seen the well concealed electrified lines atop the stone walls or the alarms and motion sensors scattered throughout the grounds. The multiple defense mechanisms rendered any potential intruder's hope of a surprise entry most unlikely. It imparted a strong sense of security but Sarah was intensely aware that no place was ever truly safe.

"May I go now, Sarah?" Dark eyes flashed with anticipation. In her mind she was already back on the diving board. Sarah was about to acquiesce when she heard the two short beeps from Catherine's laptop. Catherine immediately rose from her seated position and opened her computer. "Movement on the access road. A car just turned in." Catherine's voice was flatly devoid of emotion. Sarah made quick eye contact and they nodded in unspoken agreement.

"Marissa, why don't you take your sister over and let her splash in the shallow end?" Sarah had tried to maintain a lightly casual tone but Marissa's expression showed a quick understanding. Sarah always suspected that behind those delicate Hispanic features Marissa had an old soul. She had grasped Sarah's real meaning.

"Come on Ally", she said taking Allison by the hand. Back at the pool Savannah received a similar request from Catherine. She also moved to the far end of the pool.

Sarah reached into the beach bag sitting by her chair and felt the comforting sensation of cold metal as her hand closed around the pistol. Pulling the Glock from her bag, she turned away from the pool holding the gun in front of her to spare young eyes the sight of the deadly weapon. Catherine had reached her side allowing the two of them to walk shoulder to shoulder down the brick walkway toward the ornate iron gate at the front of the estate. Catherine was not carrying a weapon but, of course, she did not need one. Catherine was a weapon.

The two of them had almost reached the only access point in the protecting wall when Sarah heard the rhythmic tones emerging from the front of Catherine's blouse. Withdrawing the cell phone from her pocket Catherine spoke quickly and succinctly. "Yes. Yes. I see. Very well, thank you John Henry."

Sarah turned inquisitively toward Catherine who was displaying her usual enigmatic smile. "John Henry says it's a 2010 Mercedes E class sedan, two occupants, male and female. It is John and Cameron."

Sarah clicked on the Glock's safety and smiled happily. "They are home."

"Isn't that what I just said?"

Cameron opened the glove compartment and took out the remote switch. The code was simple, click, two beats click click, one beat, click. With the last snap the gates swung open. She smiled as she heard John's long contented sigh. "You certainly sound happy to be home."

"Right now, I think that home is the second most perfect word in the English language."

The Mercedes rolled through the gates that immediately swung closed behind them. Cameron returned the remote switch to its place in the glove compartment. Looking at John as he pulled the car into the Château's small parking area she inquired in her most innocently disingenuous tone." And what is the most perfect word?"

John leaned over, put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her. "I would say it's a tie between Cameron and wife."

"There are times, John Connor, what you truly exceed all the bounds of rational understanding." The words were severe, their loving expression was not.

"I know," John responded. "I think that's one of my most endearing qualities."

They were kissing again when an impatient voice rang out from beside the car. "Would you two please stop that. There are people waiting out here."

John grinned widely at Sarah as he emerged from the Mercedes. "Gee mom, you're not going to shoot your son are you? Just for kissing his wife?"

Sarah glanced down at her right hand almost surprised to see that the gun was still there. Some things that other people might find unusual or even disturbing were instinctive in the Connor family. She slipped the gun into the waist band of her skirt as she reached out to embrace her son.

Catherine stood patiently waiting as the reunion ritual was observed. Sarah always overreacted. John and Cameron had only been gone two days. There had been much longer trips since Captain Connor and his wife had revived and polished the Alexander Maestro and Alexis Fragale personas they had first developed back in San Francisco. They had taken those characters to a variety of locations – London, Antwerp twice, St. Petersburg, always returning safely and with Connor's objectives accomplished. The most recent excursion had only been to Marseille, less than four hours away. Sarah acted as if she hadn't seen them for a month. She always overreacted.

Catherine nodded in greeting as John stepped away from Sarah leaving her to speak to Cameron, while he approached her. From the raw redness on his knuckles , the bruise over his right eye ,the cut on his neck and the disheveled condition of the expensive clothes he wore as the fictional scion of a super-rich Argentine family it appeared that events in Marseille had taken a challenging turn. Glancing over at Cameron who was being affectionately embraced by her mother-in-law, Catherine noted the rips in her elegant dress and the mussed condition of her hair with long brown locks dangling haphazardly alongside her face. Perhaps Sarah wasn't overreacting after all.

"Captain Connor, welcome home."

Before answering, John leaned over and kissed her cheek. Why did he always do that?, Catherine wondered. What was it about these unnecessary spontaneous displays of affection that humans enjoyed so much? More importantly, why did she like it and why did it not surprise her when he did it?

"Good to be back. Everything go all right while we were away?"

"Quite well. We have received a number of her reports from California you will wish to review. John Henry has also developed a revised strategic analysis…" Catherine stopped in mid-phrase. That wasn't what he was asking about. "Your daughters are fine John. Along with Savannah they have been enjoying the pool, doing their ballet exercises, and waiting impatiently for you and Cameron to return."

From the way his smile broadened Catherine knew that she had belatedly answered the proper question. In one respect John Connor appeared to gain a perceptible physical maturity with every passing day but any mention of his daughters seem to summon back all the infectious glow of carefree youth. Human psychology could be a mystifying subject – one that she had not presumed to have mastered. But if forced to draw conclusion, she believed that Captain Connor's remarkable emotional strength relied heavily on two little girls and on the two women who had just joined him, each taking one of his arms.

"Did everything go all right in Marseille?" Sarah asked casually. He would be suspicious if she didn't ask anything. Now he would have his chance to try to mislead her. They had the mother – son gavotte down pat.

"Right according to plan. A couple of minor glitches but Cameron and I dealt with that without too much trouble."

"What kind of glitches?" Sarah asked.

"Minor stuff", John said in a dismissive tone." The important thing is that Maestro Enterprises now owns Clezot Shipping. We have the beginnings of our Mediterranean distribution organization. Time for the next case."

Sarah heard the unmistakable sound of discussion closing. "Come on," John said, the seriousness lost from his voice. "I'll get the luggage later. I want to see my girls now."

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[EDITORS' NOTE. Despite the universal praise accorded General Connor's multi volume work, scholars have commented upon certain apparent omissions in the original draft. More specifically, it has been noted that General Connor's well documented modesty evidently led him to gloss over certain events, particularly those incidents that reflected on the extent of his personal heroism. To address these omissions, the present editors have relied upon the extensive personal journal maintained by General Connor's wife, Cameron and the recently recorded recollections of Col. John W Henry, retired, the former Chief of Resistance Intelligence. The editors are confident that the additional material has enhanced the historical value of Freedom's War. Accordingly, the account of events occurring in Marseille on June 17, 2011 are more detailed than those described in previous versions of this work.]

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Marseille had cleaned up its act somewhat from the gritty French Connection days of the 1970s but it was still a pulsating and frenetic place. The city was filled with a cultural and social blend of humanity that reflected the full range of a cosmopolitan Mediterranean world. On its waterfronts commerce, legal and illegal still generated fortunes and swept them away just as quickly. Most modern day commercial shipping used the large new port to the north but the historical waterfront surrounded by its horseshoe shaped walkway continued to draw a significant amount of unconventional business.

John parked the Mercedes near the Café Memoz. With the lowest parking fines in France and a somewhat tolerant municipal attitude toward creative parking it had been relatively easy to find or make a place for the car. As he opened the car door for Cameron, John realized once again that clinging to the Maestro/ Fragale aliases this long might not be the best idea. But watching Cameron do her version of Alexis was just too much fun for him to give up. In her tightly clinging black silk dress ,ultra high heels and tightly bound ballet dancer hairstyle, she could create an expression of pampered disdain that would shatter the heart of any would-be admirer.

Of course he wasn't bad either. As befitting a wealthy pampered Argentine playboy, he dressed with a mixture of elegance and purpose. The designer slacks, well tailored jacket, gold Rolex watch and dark leather attaché case all proclaimed money on the move. Cameron had painstakingly tutored him in language and inflection so that he could now affect a kind of vaguely indefinable foreign accent – just enough to confuse the listener.

As they crossed a busy street toward the Café, Cameron elicited number of admiring whistles, shouts and physically unlikely propositions. Well into the character now she kept her chin up utterly ignoring the cries of the hoi polloi."Cameron, if it gets physical in there today try to be a bit more discreet in how you deal with it. I'd rather not have any Supergirl rumors floating around Marseille."

Cameron turned her head, looked at him and sniffed disdainfully. "Why John, I am always discreet."

"Yeah right" John muttered vividly recalling a London thug flying head first through a window into the Thames and two St. Petersburg gun men nursing broken arms.

Despite the name, Café Memoz was more of an old style waterfront bar than a restaurant. The Clezot family had actually begun business with the Café and then opened the shipping line from an office in an upstairs room. The company headquarters was still there. Of course, there wasn't much to the shipping line – three aging freighters, five fishing boats, and a motor driven launch to get around the harbor. But it would do. John was convinced it would be sufficient for his purposes.

They were waiting at a table when John and Cameron walked in. Despite the sudden shift from bright sun to a shadowy interior, John kept his sunglasses on. Image was part of character. Crossing the room he noticed that neither stood to greet them. Introductions were no longer necessary but the relationship was not yet friendly. The old man still had an expression of deeply suspicious hostility while the woman merely looked uncertain and perhaps even a little frightened. Understandable, John thought. Two months ago she was a kindergarten teacher in Lyon who had never expected to have any part in her family's businesses or their problems.

With an exaggerated flourish John pulled out the chair for Cameron who accepted the favor with an attitude of one fully accustomed to such deference. John barely suppressed the grin as he took up the seat next to her.

"So," he said without further ceremony." Have you decided Mademoiselle Clezot? Are you prepared to accept my offer?"

John was looking at the woman but the elderly man charged in. "Why don't you explain, Monsieur Maestro, why my niece should sell you 51% of her company, of her inheritance from her father?"

"Because that's the only way she gets to keep any part of it. She either joins with me or Guy Dussant takes it all. One Hundred percent of nothing is nothing, Monsieur Hebert."

Cameron heard the sharp snap in John's voice and more as well. She heard the regret. The slightest touch of her hand to a person's neck allowed her sensors to measure all aspects of human emotion. But reading John did not require touch. Their link easily surpassed all the limits of the physical world. She knew he disliked being brusque with Paul Hebert , that he genuinely liked the older man, but events did not always allow time for polite niceties.

It was a pity they had to move so quickly, Cameron thought. The old gentleman was only trying to be protective. He clearly loved the woman he called his niece even though she was only a cousin and a distant one at that. Now in his 70s, Paul Hebert still had a cord like toughness and a fierce visage acquired through two tours of duty in the Legion. He had honed that toughness in numerous battles on the Marseille waterfront where he worked for Madeleine Clezot's father for more years than he could remember. Cameron could tell that it bothered him deeply that he was no longer physically able to protect his niece from the circling vultures and from John's expression she knew he hated to force the reality of the situation onto the old man.

"Uncle Paul" Madeleine raised her hand. "Let me talk to Monsieur Maestro."

John removed his sunglasses and waited as she tried to organize her words. According to John Henry's research ,which was always correct, she had never anticipated that she would have any role in her father's business. All that was supposed to be her brother Eric's responsibility. Eric's recent death in a decidedly suspicious car accident had thrust a responsibility onto her she had never wanted.

"Monsieur, suppose I tell you that Dussant has offered me a six-month extension on the loan?"

John or Alexander Maestro chuckled bitterly." How kind of him. At what interest? How many additional fees?" He leaned on the table and let his stare bore Madeleine Clezot. "Madeleine, your brother borrowed €150,000 from Guy Dussant. What is the debt up to now? 210,000, €220,000?"

"Two hundred ten", Madeleine softly replied.

Paul Hebert started to twitch with anger. "How do you know…?"

John made a curt dismissive gesture. "I know. That is all that matters. Madeleine, you are too intelligent not to understand this. You either sell controlling interest to me and let me deal with Dussant or in less than a year he'll own it all." Allowing the harsh impact of his words to sink into Madeleine Clezot and her uncle, John turned to Cameron. "Alexis" he said and Cameron removed two documents from a file folder she had placed on the table. He slid them across to Madeleine. "The first one transfers 51% of Clezot Shipping to Maestro Enterprises, the second employs you as president of the new company and your uncle as special advisor."

Before Madeleine could respond, the sound of shouting and curses announced the arrival of a group of men who roughly pushed past a protesting bar employee at the front door. The man in the lead was big, at least 6 feet tall and muscularly built. Short cropped brown hair ,an angled square cut face with eyes that looked too small for their setting, dark pinpoints in a sea of flesh all combined to create an image of latent violence. The four men who followed him wearing poorly cut cheap suits with ominous bulges in their jackets completed the picture. John recognized the face from John Henry's file – Guy Dussant your friendly neighborhood loan shark and protection merchant.

John pulled the fountain pen from his inside jacket pocket. Holding it out to Madeleine his voice was even but quietly insistent. "Time to decide Madeleine. Now or never."

She looked at Dussant and his henchmen storming towards them. Then grabbing the pen she scratched her name is on both documents. John nodded approvingly as she slid them back to him. Turning his head to Cameron he silently mouthed the word, "Showtime".

Cameron moved her chair a bit to the right before crossing her legs causing the silk dress to slide well up her thighs. That ought to distract the heterosexuals in the crowd John thought.

Without being asked Dussant pulled up a chair and sat down ignoring Madeleine and her uncle. Instead he focused a fierce stare on John while his four bodyguards spread out behind him. In the background the squeaky tones of a record playing on an aging American jukebox contributed to the film noir atmosphere. Three of Dussant's men matched their boss's glare at John. The one on the far end, however, clearly found Cameron's legs more interesting.

"Your men hover well, Dussant."

The Frenchman's already angry face darkened further. "You know me. Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Alexander Maestro." Gesturing toward Cameron, he continued. "My Administrative assistant, Ms. Alexis Fragale."

"What are you doing here, Maestro?" Dussant was accustomed to frightening people, to intimidating all that he encountered. He was surprised when he failed.

"I don't believe that is any of your affair." John's voice was calmly and contemptuously mocking. Before Dussant could snap out a response the thug so obviously enthralled with Cameron's legs leaned over and whispered into his employer's ear. From the change in Dussant's expression it appeared that he was amused."

"My associate, Marcus would like to dance with your… Assistant." Dussant sarcastically emphasized the last word. "Unless you object, of course."

John leaned back in his chair letting a broad and knowing grin light up his face. A little atavistic role-play ,he thought. See if the man would try to protect his woman. Show him that he couldn't and humiliate him. "That's up to Alexis." Without a word, Cameron rose her chair and walked toward the small open floor space. The leering gunman stumbled after her. The odds were still tough but 5 to 1 was now 4 to 1.

Dussant picked up the interrupted thread of his conversation. "This place is my business." For the first time he shot what he obviously believed to be an intimidating stare at Madeleine. "Everything that goes on here is my business."

"Not anymore", John said calmly. "I own controlling interest in Clezot Shipping now. Your involvement here is over."

As Dussant struggled to respond to a type of casual resistance he had not encountered in years John glanced out at the improvised dance floor. Watching Cameron's spins and pivots he could tell that she was deliberately taunting the big man's clumsy attempts to display his physical prowess.

Dussant tried to reach back to his days as a street enforcer for his drug dealing father. Leaning on the table he snarled John. "Like shit it's over. These people owe me money. If anyone else is going to run this place it will be me."

The wild scream part pain, part disbelief, and complete dismay broke the mood. All heads turned to see the man who had been dancing with Cameron go somersaulting across the floor, crashing through an empty table and ending up in a crumpled pile against the far wall. With her chin lifted, her posture regally erect, Cameron walked back to the table and sat down in her chair. A stunned silence settled on the group as Dussant and his men stared at her. "He put his hands on my hips. I told him not to do that. I told him twice."

John reached up to rub his chin and cover the smile he couldn't quite suppress. So much for discretion. One of Dussant's men walked over to check on his fallen associate. The odds changed again three to two and one of the two was Cameron. Time to finish this. John suddenly rose to his feet staring disdainfully down at Dussant. Caught off guard the Frenchman struggled to stand, trying to equalize the shifting representations of power.

"I suggest that you listen to this very carefully. Mademoiselle Clezot's brother borrowed €150,000 from you. In this attaché case there is €200,000." John shoved the case toward Dussant as dismissively as if it were a single chip on a high stakes gambling table. "That's more than a fair return on your loan. You should pick it up, turn around and walk out. "John leaned forward closing the space between himself and the big Frenchman. His voice contained a tone of cold certainty. "You should do that now."

"You don't give orders to me you son of a…" Dussant's face had turned a splotchy red with fury. He reached out to grab the lapels of John's jacket with both hands. His two remaining men were staring at John with a mixture of disbelief and anticipation. Across the room, the disoriented dancer was being helped to his feet by the remaining thug. A snapshot of that moment would have frozen the scene seconds before Guy Dussant taught this imbecile who really ran this stretch of the Marseille waterfront. Pictures can be illusions.

John's left arm jerked upward forcing Dussant's hands off his jacket. Simultaneously he threw a crashing right fist that smashed into his mouth and nose. As the big man staggered backward his bodyguards started toward John. With the practiced grace of an acrobat Cameron rested both her hands on the table and flipped herself across it landing gracefully behind the men who had foolishly ignored her. They paid for their mistake when she lifted her leg and kicked the one nearest her in the back. The force of the blow propelled him into his companion driving both of them across the room.

As John spun around the table moving in Dussant's direction the oafish dancer's companion dropped his dazed friend back onto the floor as he rushed forward. Almost as an afterthought, John picked up a chair and threw it at him. The unexpected collision with flying furniture removed the man temporarily from the fight. The brawl settled quickly into two segments. John and Dussant traded blows in the middle of the room while the two men Cameron had kicked into the wall were storming back in her direction. The first she evaded with a contemptuous ease letting his momentum carry him sprawling into the table where they had just been sitting. As he tried to get up, Paul Hebert, who had been watching the fight develop with unrestrained pleasure, seized an empty wine bottle which he smashed across the man's head. Madeleine Clezot looked at her aged uncle with complete amazement. Then she smiled.

The second man managed to grasp the shoulders of Cameron's dress. Sometimes she found John's request that she disguise her strength frustratingly irrational. It only prolonged conflict unnecessarily. It would be so easy just to kill this man. John wanted subtlety so that's what he would get. Cameron twirled, a move somewhere between a ballet pirouette and a martial arts response to an attack. In the same moment she twisted the man's arm behind his back. Glancing over to see that John was engaged with Dussant she snapped two of his fingers. He screamed in agony as she shoved him reeling toward the bar. Subtlety was a concept open to interpretation.

John was hardly a classically trained boxer but he had natural skills and he was quick. Despite his edge in bulk and height, Dussant has spent too long allowing other men to do his fighting. He swung wildly, telegraphed his punches and failed to cover up. Soon his face was bleeding from multiple cuts and his breath was becoming labored.

Cameron could see that Dussant had landed a few blows of his own but each time he did so, John simply backed away, grinned broadly and waded back in. He had that wild battle light in his eyes now. It did not please her to see that expression. When that fire ignited in his eyes the man she loved lost all concern for his own safety.

The crunch of cartilage in his nose breaking a second time, the salty taste of blood in his mouth finally drove Dussant into a blind fury. He reached into his pocket pulling out the switchblade he carried mostly as a souvenir of his younger days. With a click of the switch he prepared to put it back into use. At the same time the man John had struck with the flying chair reached inside his jacket fumbling for his pistol. Enough subtlety, Cameron thought. This was getting out of hand. Lifting her skirt high up her thigh she drew her gun from its hiding place.

"Stop!" She shouted. The steely resolve in one word froze the room. Dussant's henchman withdrew his hand from inside his jacket and slowly raised both hands over his head. Still gripping the switchblade, Dussant looked back and forth, first at Cameron then in a hate filled stare at John and finally back at Cameron's gun. No one doubted that she was prepared to shoot anyone who moved. Then to her dismay, John grinned. That same wild expression of battle joined but unresolved. He wasn't finished yet.

"Keep everyone else out of it, Alexis. Monsieur Dussant and I still have to settle a few things." Staying in character Cameron affected an almost bored tone of disinterested equanimity. "Alexander, don't you think…?" But John had already turned away. He wasn't listening to her now. He sneered contemptuously at Dussant.

"Come on Dussant. She won't interfere. You aren't ready to quit, are you?" Dussant spit a mouthful of blood on the floor as he looked uncertainly at Cameron's pistol. "Come on you gutless son of a bitch," John snarled. "Things a lot worse than you have tried to cut me up. Show me what you can do or do you just fight women and old men?"

The last taunt galvanized the Frenchman into action. Roaring in a blind rage, he raced towards John stabbing wildly with the knife. Like a bullfighter invading the horns of a charging bull, John sidestepped and landed a hard blow in Dussant's ribs as he stumbled past. Dussant turned and tried again this time waving the blade frantically from side to side. Once more, John backed away at the last second, delivering three quick punches to his opponent's battered face.

Cameron called on all of her cyborg nature to remain outwardly calm. Internally she fought to control an emotional whirlpool. If it were possible for it to happen he was going to drive her crazy. If she didn't love him so much she would be tempted just to shoot him herself.

It might have been overconfidence on John's part or just random luck, but as Dussant made another charge, a wild swing let the point of his knife skip across the surface of John's neck. When she saw the flash of red appear, just a scratch really, Cameron's resolve broke. For the first time she fell completely out of character.

"John! That is enough!"

Responding to his name as well as the unmistakable passion in her voice he looked at her and nodded reassuringly. On Dussant's next charge he seized the man's wrist and kicked him in the leg. The knife fell to the floor as Dussant collapsed into a moaning heap. John pulled the **.**38 from his ankle holster. He knelt, slamming his knee into the fallen loan shark's stomach. As he gasped in pain, John shoved the muzzle of the pistol into his mouth.

"I believe we have had enough discussion so now I'm going to tell you what's going to happen. That will be all right with you won't it?." Dussant tried to speak but John jammed the gun further into his mouth. "Don't talk just nod. Clezot Shipping belongs to me now. Mademoiselle Clezot is going to operate it for me. You're going to pick up the money I'm giving you to pay her family's debt and walk away. If you ever come back, if anyone connected to you threatens her or tries to interfere with my business, I'll hunt you down and kill you. Do you understand me?"

A beaten Guy Dussant nodded

"Good. Now get up and get the hell out of here."

As Dussant and his thoroughly chastened associates staggered out the door, Madeleine Clezot and her uncle moved to John's side. "You know Monsieur Maestro I believe my niece may have made the right decision entering into an agreement with you." John looked at the tough old street fighter and held out his hand. "I'm glad you think so Monsieur Hebert. By the way I want you to register a new name for the business."

"You want to call it Maestro Shipping?"

"No" John said putting his hand on the old man shoulder. Call it New Legion Shipping."

As he slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes, John could feel Cameron's piercing glare. "Okay Cameron, I know. You don't have to tell me. I got a little carried away in there."

"A little?" Cameron sounded incredulous.

"All right, a lot. But I won't let it happen again."

Cameron smiled now, a wan expression of resignation. "Yes you will. At least I will be there to keep you from killing yourself."

John leaned forward to let his lips lightly brushed against hers. "That's all I could ever ask."

Cameron's expression changed again. A touch of pleading crept into her voice. "John may we go home now?"

"Yes my love. We are done here. If I can figure out the traffic in this crazy city we should be home with the girls in about three hours."

Cameron opened the glove compartment and removed a small leather bag. Opening the drawstrings she extracted a diamond ring, her wedding ring. Alexis Fragale was not married. Cameron Connor most assuredly was. She slipped on her ring before withdrawing plain gold band from the bag. "Hold out your hand John." With a broad smile John extended his left hand to let Cameron slide his wedding band back into place. "Now let us please go home." Cameron whispered.

The squeals of childish delight that greeted them sounded as sweet as the most ethereally conceived music. "Mommy! Daddy!" Marissa and Savannah each held hold of one of Allison's hands swinging her between them as they raced for John and Cameron. Both were kneeling with their arms outstretched ready to greet the surge of youthful adoration.

Sarah had stopped beside Catherine a few feet away. It was so very beautiful, she thought as she watched her son and her daughter-in-law fill their arms with laughing, loving little girls. This should be their life, she thought. This is really all John and Cameron want. To be with these children, to care for them and to help them grow into womanhood. It was a lovely sight and yet there was an inescapable sadness present. It would never be the gentle life they wanted. It could never be that life. As fervently as she wished that she could spare them the burdens, Sarah knew John and Cameron would have to raise their family in a world far more dangerous than they would have wished. Sarah was also certain that if anyone could deal with it, her son and the woman he loved could.


	6. Chapter 6

**Provence, France June 22, 2011**

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"It's like a knife fight in a dark room, John Henry. You know the other man is there. You can sense him. You can almost feel him. But you can't see him." John closed the cover on the latest report from James Ellison with a weary sigh.

Ever supportive, John Henry looked up from the data he was studying on multiple computer screens and smiled. "That may be true John but in this case your opponent can not see you either."

John rose from his chair at the conference table and walked over to John Henry's workstation. "I am not even certain that is correct John Henry. The attempt on Matt Murch's life suggests that someone out there has seen something."

"Zeira Corporation has always been a target John. My brother evidently perceived its threat long ago. This was likely just the latest of a series of attacks."

"This one feels different. Brutal but improvised. It's like someone is making it up as they go along."

John Henry turned his swivel chair away from the computer screens. He looked at John with an expression of renewed respect. Intuition, that unquantifiable human ability to achieve insight without data was one of John Connor's greatest strengths. While no human would ever achieve his capacity for assimilating and analyzing information, John Henry was increasingly convinced that he would never possess the instinctual vision John exhibited. He could see patterns when no one else did.

"It is possible John that we are experiencing the unexpected consequences of our own success. When you decapitated my brother's organization, killed his leaders and scattered his human assets, you forced him to rebuild in a less structured and even more covert fashion. My brother now knows he must deal with a very dangerous opponent."

Without answering John turned and paced down the long tunnel toward the weapon racks. Back in San Francisco the headquarters room had begun its existence as a Cold War relic – a bomb shelter constructed by the rich and paranoid. Here at Château DeBrac, the origin of John Henry's latest lair carried a more romantically heroic mystique. When France fell to the Nazis, the Rippon family who lived here then had resolved that none of their extensive wine collection would ever quench the thirst of a German. Baron Charles Rippon had come up with the idea of hiding the wine in the last place anyone would expect to find it – in the wine cellar.

Workers at the estate had quickly excavated a long tunnel that extended the existing cellar another 50 feet. In that newly created space concealed behind a set of heavy wooden storage shelves, the Rippons concealed their beloved collection of Rhone and Burgundy wines. To confuse the Nazis further, the Baron filled all the vacated spaces with cheap Beaujolais – confident that a beer drinking German would never see through the stratagem. Remarkably none did. After the war, the family, now tragically without the Baron who had died as a member of the French resistance, moved their wine back to its old portion of the cellar. The secret addition was largely forgotten until Catherine acquired the property.

Catherine's remodeling had retained the long cylindrical shape but hardened it while installing multiple ventilation, power and water systems. The entrance once protected only by a piece of solid wood furniture was now secured behind double steel doors. With well disguised lethal countermeasures in place, the doorway posed a near insurmountable barrier to anyone foolish enough to attempt a forceful entry.

Inside this modern bunker, John Henry's organizational system had placed his computer stations and conference area at the front leaving the furthest reaches of the tunnel to store their extensive arsenal. Reaching that area John picked up one of the latest additions. The highly experimental Pulsar, phase rifle had been developed by the renowned Belgian weapons company Narvan Fabrique d'Armes. The weapon had been manufactured under a written agreement so complex that a battalion of New York lawyers could not have unraveled it or traced it back to Zeira Corporation.

Cradling the hefty rifle in his arms, John felt a kind of perverse satisfaction. It wasn't quite the standard issue plasma rifle his men had carried when he commanded company J of the Resistance but it was getting there. Far too complex, too expensive and perhaps even more lethal than would be required by a conventional army, it would equalize any battle between metal and human. John knew that if it were ever used in great numbers it would mean that his efforts to forestall Skynet had failed. Yet in the recesses of his mind he admitted, almost shamefully, to himself that at least he understood that type of war. He could fight that conflict with a confidence he could not quite achieve in this never-ending struggle with the enemy who hid in that dark room.

Get a grip Connor! John mentally seized himself by his lapels and shook. You fight when and where you must and with whatever weapons you have. Get your mind back in the game!

He replaced the rifle in its place on the rack. Watching him from his computer station, John Henry saw the change in posture. The renewed determination in John's expression was as clear as the image on the computer screens. John Henry had become accustomed to Captain Connor's occasional descents into reverie – times when a mood of near clinical depression seemed to settle onto him. With the exception of Cameron, John Henry suspected that no one else ever saw this side of John Connor. He would not allow it. Each time the black mood appeared, John was somehow able to fling it away. Emerging with an ever stronger attitude, a steely personal commitment that grew harder each time.

He was standing at John Henry's side now. "I don't know how powerful we are, but we damned well are the opposition." For the first time John took notice of the mass of information flowing across the multiple screens on John Henry's computers." While I've been wallowing in reports you have obviously been busy. What do you have going on here?"

John Henry pointed at each of the glowing screens in turn. "Wire fraud, bank fraud, money laundering, World of War Craft." John was nodding approval until the impact of the last words registered.

He shot a sharp glance at John Henry whose placid expression dissolved into a mischievous smile.

"Joke."

John's attempt to preserve a stern expression failed as he dissolved into laughter shaking his head in bemused resignation. The boundless intellect encompassed within his artificial intelligence meant the John Henry was capable of maintaining multiple lines of thought simultaneously. The sight and sound of John Connor's unrestrained amusement opened a new conceptual path. His brother, Skynet or whatever name he gave himself, sought power, absolute dominance and yet John Henry realized that he had just exercised a power his brother would never have, would never even comprehend. He had made John Connor laugh. He had lifted an emotional weight and made a human being happy. Perhaps his brother would regard that ability as irrelevant but to John Henry it was a skill of incalculable value.

"Actually John, it is a stock manipulation program that gives us maximum value on the Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Tokyo exchanges."

Waving his hand at the screens John chuckled as he asked" And all of this is completely illegal?" John Henry looked surprised by the question. " Of course. But your plans require significant funding and we do not always have time to adhere to statutory niceties." John laughed again. "No we don't. Oh John Henry, even if we are able to stop your brother, we may all end up in jail someday." John Henry's mischievous grin returned. "Only if they catch us John."

John turned back to the table where the reports he had been studying were spread out. He was about to sit back down when John Henry interposed an objection." If I may suggest John, you have been at that for hours now. It is almost noon. Why don't you allow yourself a break? Go upstairs and have lunch with your family."

"I think that sounds like a very good idea."

As he passed through the actual wine cellar John stopped and extracted a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape from one of the large racks. He had not actually been much of a wine drinker until they arrived in Provence. But after tasting one of the local vintages he had immediately decided that to live in a place that produced such a miraculous beverage and not enjoy it would be a sin.

The stairs from the cellar entered the main house just off the dining room. The table was already set for lunch and he was about to go to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew when he heard the raised female voices.

"I was not being critical." Sarah Connor's voice was snappishly defensive. "I was just commenting that it seems as if you are adding too many tomatoes."

From her response it did not sound as if Catherine had been mollified. "What does a woman whose primary culinary achievement consists of burnt pancakes know about the proper recipe for bouillabaisse?"

"I know about taste." Sarah's response had gained volume." Do you? Can you actually taste anything?"

"Of course I can, Sarah. You know better than that. If I couldn't taste how would I know that you burn your pancakes?"

John set the wine bottle on the table and sought an immediate avenue for retreat. He was reasonably sure they would not try to kill each other but at any moment they might come bursting out of the kitchen in search of someone to referee their latest dispute. He emphatically did not want to be present if that happened.

Cameron's ballet studio in the San Francisco house had been an impromptu creation. Catherine had brought the mirrors and the barre into the gymnasium when she recognized Savannah's enthusiasm for the new activity. Being Catherine, she had been more thorough in the Chateau. One of the side sitting rooms had been cleared out and the far wall completely covered with mirrors. A more stable barre ran the length of the room while subtle overhead lighting joined with an elaborate musical sound system to create an artistic refuge from a dangerous world. Yes, Catherine was thorough.

As he walked down the hall John heard the music even before he reached the studio. Cameron liked Chopin, regularly using the études when teaching. Although his musical taste usually ran toward much less sophisticated fare, John had discovered an unexpected satisfaction in the rhythmic introspection of the piano in these pieces. Or perhaps that music had simply become inextricably intertwined with his image of Cameron's dancing.

Today he stopped in the doorway watching as she demonstrated a simplified arabesque to Savannah and Marissa who were sitting cross legged on the floor. He knew it was called an arabesque only because she had once told him. The two older girls were watching in rapt attention while on the other side of the room Allison's interest was focused on the long blonde hair of her favorite doll.

In a flash a painful memory, he saw another little girl playing on a dirty cement floor with the broken remnants of her doll. The doll's carved wooden head – a crude homemade replacement for the long lost original had accidentally rolled into an old drain. John could still visualize the tears of gratitude on her grime covered little face when he returned the head to her. Her name had been Sarah and she was dead now. She was dead along with all the others the Skynet had slaughtered in that time. But he remembered her. He would always remember her. He would protect his daughters and Savannah from a similar fate as long as he had breath in his body.

"Now let's see you both try it." Cameron's voice brought him back to the present. His smile returned as Marissa and Savannah each moved into position, lifting their legs and extending their arms as Cameron had illustrated. She moved beside them gently adjusting their positions, shifting their hands slightly while whispering soft words of encouragement.

John saw the surprising reflection in the mirror before he turned his head back toward Allison. She wasn't even two yet so dance lessons had not been as enticing to her as other pursuits. Today she suddenly seemed fascinated by the movements Cameron was demonstrating. To John's amazement the little girl got to her feet and did an imitation of the arabesque. It wasn't perfect, she only held it for a few seconds before slipping back to the floor and picking up her doll, but the sight of this miniature Cameron following her mother's example caused his heart to race.

"Excuse me, ladies. I hate to interrupt but I am here to escort you all to lunch." Giggling in best friend fashion Marissa and Savannah skipped away together for the dining room while Cameron knelt to pick up Allison. She was perfectly capable of walking now but Cameron still liked to carry her. From the smile on her little face was obvious that Allison liked being carried especially by Cameron or by Sarah.

When they reached him in the doorway, John leaned over and whispered in a conspiratorial fashion. "Cameron, did you see her?"

"Yes I did, John." Cameron had anticipated the question." She did the movement." Cameron brushed back her daughter's hair." She's going to be a dancer."

"Just like her mother" John whispered as he put his arm around Cameron's waist.

**Los Angeles, California, June 22, 2011**

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With each stroke of the brush her long black hair glittered and gleamed, the light from the bedroom lamp illuminating each shining strand. In the later stages of her pregnancy she had worn it bound up, easier to care for she had claimed. Now two months after Matteo's birth she was wearing it loose again, an ebony waterfall that rolled across her shoulders and down her back.

Her face was turned away from him looking into the mirror judging the progress of the brush but he knew she was watching his reflection. He could feel her eyes on him, sense the unspoken adoration in her gaze. She began to hum a low gentle rhythm, the lullaby she had sung to Matteo before he drifted away into an infant's innocent slumber. If he listened carefully he could hear the faint sound of his son's breathing coming from the bassinet beside their bed.

This was not the life he had ever envisioned , or expected from the day he had first taken up the gun. Men like him were not supposed to experience love or family. He was, after all, Emilio Garza the pitiless enforcer, the chillingly cold assassin whose dark Indian eyes had once been compared to those of a shark. His façade, the elaborately polite, impeccably dressed, emotionally impassive predator of the urban jungle had been carefully crafted. He had created his own image of Emilio Garza as a suit of armor that blocked out the world and shielded him from the risks caused by caring.

She had burst through that armor with a speed and certitude that still amazed him. She had not even been a stranger. He had seen her briefly years ago when she was barely a teenager. Chola Martinez was just one more plaything of whatever gang banger controlled her neighborhood that week. She had barely registered on his consciousness, mentally dismissed as the type of female who provided a little hourly amusement before being completely forgotten. But when she called him about joining some kind of a crew she was putting together for a unnamed Jefe, he had detected a note of confident maturity in her voice. The tone did not fit with the barely recalled picture his mind had of her. So rather than just reject her request out of hand – Emilio Garza did not join anyone's organization – he agreed to meet her. Call it an example of catlike curiosity.

The woman waiting in the bar on Sunset Boulevard bore only the most superficial resemblance to the Chola he remembered. It was not just that she was older, a little past 20 now but that there was a sophistication, a confidence, a fearlessness about her that intrigued him. Most people meeting him, even the toughest types looking to employ his special talents tended toward nervousness. His lethal reputation always preceded him. Chola however had not shown the slightest sign of trepidation. She had calmly laid out her proposition then casually sipped her drink while he considered her offer.

She was crazy, of course. She wanted to put together a gathering of top street talent that no one could possibly afford, all to work for this mysterious John Connor and his girlfriend Cameron. It was completely insane. He agreed immediately. If he had said no she would have walked away and he might not have seen her again. Abruptly that possibility had become unacceptable. Their real relationship began the night he helped her evade the FBI's surveillance of her house. He had driven her to the new apartment, carried in her luggage was turning to leave when he felt her hand on his arm. Her eyes were as dark as his but glowed with an animating force that reached out to seize him.

"Thank you Emilio." Her voice dropped into a lower register. She put her palms on his cheeks and kissed him. To Emilio women had always been an interchangeable commodity to be purchased when needed and discarded after use. If she was offering a bonus it might be worth an hour of his time. Except he did not think of it that way, even for a second. The touch,the taste of her lips changed his world in the beat of a heart. Light suddenly illuminated a universe that had been covered in darkness. Somehow they made it to the bedroom although Emilio wasn't sure he could recall how. Clothes flew in every direction before they rolled into each other's arms and onto the bed. He hadn't even bothered to hang up his jacket – a first for Emilio Garza.

He had always thought of sex as a raw animalistic indulgence, a physical pleasure to be enjoyed and then mentally put aside until the next time. That night with her he experienced that pleasure but so much more. For the first time in his life he was actually making love – a sensation that he did not want to end.

He awoke the next morning to find her lying beside him, looking at him intently. Before he could speak she leaned over to kiss him. "If you need to go now it will be all right." She was telling him that she was making no demand, expecting no commitment. He was free to leave her just as he would walk away from any other one night companion. In response he slid out of the bed, gathered up his trousers from the floor without even noticing the wrinkles and smiled at her." How do you like your eggs?" He asked. Her smile broadened as she pushed her long black hair away from her face." Soft-boiled" she answered." So do I" he replied.

He did leave her, for an hour and a half, long enough to go back to his apartment and pack a bag. When he returned he did not say he was moving in. He had already seen the recognition and the approval in her expression. When she discovered she was pregnant she told him immediately, not to demand anything from him or to seek to bind him to any responsibility. She just wanted him to know. She wanted him to understand that he could go if he wished. He had no desire to go or to live without her, ever.

His life, however, had not prepared him for choosing the correct path now. What did a killer do when the woman he loved was having his child?

John Connor, the ghost warrior they all called Jefe now had given him the simple answer. "Marry her, if she loves you, Marry her." Emilio Garza who would never acknowledged anyone's authority took the advice of his new leader. He married her.

Chola put down the hairbrush and stood up. They had divided the expensive silk pajamas with Emilio wearing the bottoms while she wore the top. When she turned to face him the first three buttons have been carefully loosened while her now gleaming hair hung strategically down to simulate a false modesty. Somewhat self-consciously she folded her arms across her lower body. She thought she looked fat because she had not yet lost all the pregnancy weight. He disagreed. She would always be beautiful to him.

He was about to take her into an embrace when a low tinkling of the cell phone resting on the dressing table claimed her attention. The call would be for her. That phone was used solely for organization business and Chola was the Jefe's representative in all such matters. "Yes. Are you sure? When was the last time?" Chola's voice, so tender loving when she spoke to him, so quietly maternal which she sang to Matteo, was brusquely certain. "We need to get everyone here tomorrow 10 o'clock. We need to talk. Something is going on."

Emilio could see the signs of concern in his wife's face as she clicked off the phone." What's wrong Cielita?" He whispered keeping his voice low to avoid waking the baby. Chola shook her head." Joey K is missing. No one has seen him for two days."

Emilio nodded, instantly understanding the reason for his wife's concern. "Just like Hector." Chola nodded. Hector Rios has seemingly walked off the earth over a week ago. The only link between Hector and Joey K was Chola's organization. As with many in his line of work, Emilio Garza did not trust coincidence. Better to believe in a hidden enemy and be wrong than underestimate a threat. Chola was right to call a meeting but the meeting wasn't until tomorrow. Tonight still belonged to them.

He moved against her, unfastening the remaining buttons on the pajama top. He let his right hand move slowly beneath the fabric so he could caress one of the more obvious rewards a man received when his woman gave birth. From her smile he could see that his touch had vanquished her worries at least for the moment.

"We are going to have to be quiet." Her warm breath against his face accompanied her whisper." I just got Matteo to sleep." Emilio smiled as he gently eased her out of the pajama top. "I will try if you will." They did try but not always successfully. Luckily their son was a sound sleeper.

James Ellison was nervous. Tarrisa Dyson found that quite surprising. James and Miles were dissimilar in so many ways. Her late husband had been brilliant, scholarly and insightful with a charmingly disorganized nature. Miles had always regarded the world through a prism of bemused wonder. Even in his most serious moments he appeared to be searching for his next joke. To a man of his genius the universe was his private erector set he could play with every day.

Watching her dinner companion fumble with his uncooperative napkin, she knew that James did not possess Miles's incredible intellect. James had a gravity, a sense of duty, of unshakable purpose that Miles had never exhibited. James was not a man who joked easily. He found life too demanding, too serious for casual levity. When James took on a responsibility he carried it without hesitation, without complaint and put it down only when it was fully discharged.

Yes, Tarissa thought, Miles and James were different in so many ways but they shared one common trait. Both possessed a steely self-confidence. During his life Miles confronted every challenge with the calm certainty that he would think of a way to overcome it. James relied on a different source of strength. From the first night she had met him, she sensed his willingness to face any threat without fear. He was confident, not that he would always succeed, but that he would never recoil from a challenge. Tonight however James had lost that aura of poised assurance. He spilled his wine on the expensive restaurant tablecloth, dropped his silverware twice and seemed unable to follow the train of his own conversation. One moment he looked at her as if straining to form a sentence and then in the next second he turned his head away as if afraid to meet her gaze. At that moment Tarissa realized why he was nervous. It was because of her. That was even more surprising.

She and James were not lovesick teenagers. They were both in their 40s. She had a grown son hiding somewhere out there in the secret recesses of the world. The thought of Danny caused a momentary sense of profound sadness to sweep through her. It had after all been James's promise to look for Danny that first attracted her to him. The early acquaintance had grown rapidly into a friendship and then into something deeper as two injured souls felt a connection.

James began to come by regularly, usually in the late evening ,to check on the Zeira Corporation security detail he had assigned her. It had not been long until a quick hello became a cup of tea and a late-night conversation. Once she made the decision it took her three tries to get him into her bed. Breaking through that stern façade of James Ellison's rectitude had been hard work. But well worth the effort.

The first night she had actually experienced a quick spasm of guilt. Miles had been her high school sweetheart, the only man in her life and she had loved him deeply. Briefly she entertained the thought that she was being unfaithful, disloyal to his memory and then she banished that idea completely and forever. Miles had been gone for more than a decade. She wanted to live again, to love again and to be loved. As she curled his body against his she knew the James Ellison was what she wanted.

Building the relationship from that point had still required effort on her part. Being James, he seemed to think that he had taken unfair advantage of her. Tarissa had literally laughed that misconception away. Gradually he understood that it had not been a single instance of two lonely people seeking comfort but the beginning of something much deeper, something more permanent. Once he understood that, it became easier for her to persuade him to spend most of his nights at her house. They didn't go out often. He worked so hard, so many long hours that she preferred to let him relax over a quiet meal she had prepared. Sitting closely beside him on the couch in front of the television had become one of the high points of her day even when he dozed off with his head on her shoulder.

Tonight was different. He had asked her out to dinner. Inwardly, Tarissa had laughed. They were practically living together and he asked her for a date like an uncertain adolescent. Throughout their meal he repeatedly seemed to be on the verge of some serious discussion before fleeing back into disjointed small talk. She waited patiently until the dessert and coffee before she concluded that enough was enough. As was usually the case, the woman was going to have to extract the man from his own trap.

She reached across the table taking both of his hands in hers almost forcing him to look directly at her. "All right James. There is something you want to tell me and we are not leaving here until you do it."

Ellison took an audibly deep breath before speaking. "Tarissa, you are a fantastic woman and I hope you know how much I care about you, how important you have become to me but it is just..."

Oh my God Tarissa thought, I think I know where this is going.

"I know that I am no prize. I spend too much time at work. I don't always listen to people the way I should. There is no reason for you to..." Okay, get to the point James, she thought. Neither of us is getting any younger.

"James Ellison, are you trying to say you want to make an honest woman out of me?"

Ellison stopped in mid-word and stared at her. It was difficult to think what stunned him more, the fact that she knew what he was trying so clumsily to say or the lovingly encouraging smile on her face when she teased him. He reached into his pocket to withdraw a small blue box. Snapping it open he revealed the diamond covered ring. "Tarissa, I love you. Will you be my wife?"

Tarissa slowly and deliberately allowed the smile the fade from her face. In its place she spun together an expression of pensive uncertainty. She folded both her hands into a prayerful shape and touched her chin." Hmmm, James that isn't the ring you gave your ex-wife is it?"

James Ellison smiled slowly shaking his head. He knew now when he was being teased. "No Tarissa I bought this ring for you, only for you." Now her face blossomed like an African orchid opening at dawn, her smile was incandescent. "Good", she said as she took the box, deftly removed the ring and slipped it onto her finger. "Because I intend to wear it for the rest of my life."

Ellison smile matched hers in intensity. "May I take that as a yes?" Tarissa rose to her feet placed her hands on the table and leaned forward toward him. He stood to meet her. In the seconds before their lips touched she whispered, "Yes James, you may take that as a yes."

With his well-developed – some might say overdeveloped – sense of dignity James Ellison had never approved of or been comfortable with public displays of affection. But as he kissed this woman, Ellison understood that all principles, all codes of personal conduct were subject to exception. As he was about to pull reluctantly away Tarissa whispered one last comment" It certainly took you long enough." Ellison laughed and knocked over his coffee cup. Across the room the young waiter wearily shook his head as he looked for a towel to mop up the black gentleman's latest mess. In the interests of a good tip he would make no comment concerning the consequences of clumsiness but he could not restrain the thought, God they were old somewhere between 40 and 100. He didn't think people that age, that ancient even remembered how to kiss.

The multiple owners of Leonora's, none of whom were named Leonora, had chosen the building on Castle Street largely because it was in a commercial district with no other restaurants in the area. The absence of competition gave the establishment a brisk lunch trade from the executives of the surrounding office buildings while the largely empty streets in the evenings offered patrons an alternative to the overpriced valet parking service. The owners had not necessarily intended that. Nor was it important to them that large numbers of darkened entrance ways offered convenient vantage points for observers who did not wish to be observed. Caleb Brontë fit within that category.

Following Ellison had been comparatively easy for one with his cyborg enhanced vision. Trailing at a distance that would have been impossible for a biological being he had effortlessly determined Ellison's destination. He had also verified that Ellison had no supporting assistance, no "back up" as the humans called it. Brontë had noted that when Ellison traveled with the woman Tarissa Dyson he tended not to have other Zeira Corporation security personnel in the area. A foolish human attachment to privacy made him vulnerable.

As always Brontë's patience had been boundless. Waiting in the deserted entrance to a darkened office building he watched the restaurant door waiting for Ellison and his companion to heard their laughter even before the door opened. Ellison and the Dyson female were obviously enjoying each other's company. She was holding tight to his arm, resting her head against him as he leaned over to whisper in her ear. From the nature of the endearments Brontë assumed that they were planning to have sexual relations. Humans who exhibited such obvious signs of affection and spoke of those matters as Ellison had just done tended to be anticipating an enhanced physical relationship.

Ellison handed a parking slip to the valet who hurried off in the direction of the restaurant parking lot. For the moment James and Tarissa Dyson stood openly visible in the lights around the door to Leonora's. Brontë did not have a human projectile weapon. He believed that such trivial devices were unnecessary for one of his prowess. With his speed he could cover the distance to where they were standing in less than 4 seconds, no more than three more seconds would be needed to break Ellison's neck, another two or three to dispose of the woman. He could do it and be back in the dark corners of the street before anyone even grasped what it happened.

The Leader had cautioned him about displaying his cyborg abilities in a way that might attract human media attention. The Rankins had foolishly allowed public notice of their new cyborg prototypes. They even lost the remains of one to the human authorities. The Leader had only cautioned him, he had not been forbidden to employ his talents. Here was the head of Zeira Corporation's security – the most formidable enemy he had been able to identify and he was incredibly vulnerable. Brontë weighed the risks of launching a savagely lethal attack.

Before he could reach his conclusion the sound of raised voices coming down the street caused him to move further back into the shadows. From the volume and the language being used it seemed that these humans were not in an affectionate mood.

"But Chicita, amor mia, let me explain." The pleading voice belonged to a young male. He was still a boy but well on his way to manhood. The gangling appearance of his arms and legs suggested a recent growth spurt. His voice moved up and down in range as if he were not fully accustomed to this new deeper register.

"Don't you Chicita me you dirty two timing sleaze!" The girl was directly in front of Brontë and he judged her to be somewhere between 17 and 18. Long blonde, probably chemically enhanced blonde, hair, pretty by human standards although a little garish in makeup and jewelry for one of her age. From the dimensions of her upper body it appeared that she had already had her growth spurt.

"But…" He got no further." I was warned about you Ceasar Delgado. Heather, Shawna, Michele and Courtney all told me you couldn't be trusted." For a moment she seemed to be caught between tears and anger. Anger won. "I thought I was different. I thought you loved me."

The boy edged up close to her. He was tall and obviously would get taller still. Not conventionally handsome, his Hispanic appearance, dark eyes, shortcut black hair gave him a sensitive "bad boy" aura that young women often found enticing. He had obviously enticed Dustina Clements but his spell was evidently fading fast. "I do love you." Brontë's infiltrator humor program snapped into place. The boy's protestation didn't sound even vaguely credible. The girl apparently agreed. She stamped her foot and snarled at him. "Bull Shit! You just wanted to get into my pants. And I let you, you son of a bitch!"

As the little drama or comedy depending upon your point of view played out almost directly in front of him, Brontë saw the valet return with Ellison's car. His chance was gone for now. There were far too many witnesses for his plan to work but there would be other opportunities.

The girl spun around stomping her feet with a deliberately emphatic tread down the street. "I never want to see or talk to you again."

"But Dustina." He sounded a note of injured pleading." It's your car. If you leave me here how will I get home?" One last retort came firing back at young Delgado. "That… Is… Your… Problem!"

The boy stood watching her leave before he sat down on the edge of the curb. Reaching into his shirt pocket he extracted a cell phone and pushed his speed dial button. "Hola, Antonio. Look I need a ride. Can you come pick me up?" There was a long pause before he spoke again." Yeah, I know, but she dumped me. I don't know, I think she got pissed because she saw me talking to Sandy." Longer pause this time." Yeah that Sandy, but we were just talking. That's not funny Antonio. Anyway I am at the corner of Castle and Faraday. Come pick me up, okay?"

Ceasar Delgado got to his feet but before he could walk away his cell phone rang. "This is Ceasar. Hey Monique, how you doing baby? No no nothing special. Your parents aren't home? You must be really lonely. How about I come and visit? No no Chicita, just visit. I'll be there in less than an hour."

Brontë heard the boy begin to whistle- a jaunty tune that picked up in enthusiasm as he walked away from his latest romantic drama. Some humans clearly rebounded from emotional distress faster than others. He waited until the tune had faded completely away before he left his covert observation post. Biological life was an undeniable impediment to the leader's plans. It would have to be addressed. Brontë had to acknowledge, however, that observing the varieties of human nature could be interesting.

From the lavender fields of Provence to the cold cement of Los Angeles the bright sun will set, the sable cloak of night will descend and the truly fortunate will slumber in the arms of those they love, of those that love them. The world promises nothing. Love and justice are not always companions. For those blessed by it love grants a solace and lifts away life's burdens. So this shall be until time ends.


	7. Chapter 7

**Provence, June 23, 2011**

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John's response was uncompromisingly clear. "I want you all out of Los Angeles Chola, today. Get your people together and go."

Chola's voice emerging from the speaker echoed through the tunnel – like enclosure. "The type of people who work for you are not going to wish to run away, John."

"I am not asking them to run away. I just want to get them off of the bull's-eye until I can figure out who is shooting. Until I know what happened to Hector and Joey."

The line from Los Angeles, scrambled through multiple transmission points sufficient to render any call untraceable from either end, went silent. Around the conference table John Henry, Catherine, and Cameron sat watching John, his arms folded, his face set in chiseled stone. Only Sarah upstairs on childcare duty was missing.

"Where do you want us to go?"

"You decide Chola. There will be an additional deposit of funds in your account within the hour." John looked at John Henry who nodded in confirmation." You will have more than enough to cover your expenses and to pay for any new quarters you want. Go wherever you think you can be secure. Contact me as soon as you are set up."

"All right John. We will leave as quickly as possible."

John's voice dropped into a tone of cold certainty." No one has to go Chola. But anyone who stays behind is out of the organization. All of you have to cut your contacts with everyone in Los Angeles. Do you understand?"

"Yes John."

John reached for the phone as if about to terminate the call when his expression abruptly softened. A thought unrelated to death and danger had crossed his mind." How is Mateo doing?"

A male voice suddenly replaced Chola's on the line. "He is doing well, Jefe. He is ready for his first road trip."

"Hello Emilio."

"John." Emilio spoke with his usual polished equanimity. "Don't worry about us. We will be careful."

Emilio had read his mind. It wasn't simply a matter of moving resources or shifting assets. Chola and Emilio's crew had fought beside him, trusted him with their lives. The thought that they were being stalked now while he was half a world away was ripping him apart. "Don't worry about us" was the best comfort Emilio could give him because he was worried – deeply worried about them.

"Can you do me a favor, Emilio?"

"Name it."

"If you can manage it, I'd like you to take the Delgado kid with you ."

For a brief second, John heard a feminine chuckle. Chola knew how much he cared about the young street kid he had recruited. It obviously amused and pleased her that in the midst of such serious matters John Connor would make a special request in that direction.

"I have it covered. No problem."

John breathed a quiet sigh of relief." Before we break connection I think my wife wants to talk to your wife." Even as the words left his lips John shook his head. How blandly ordinary that sounded. "My wife wants to talk to your wife." It was an expression from another world, from an existence where death did not hide around the next corner or in every dark room.

He handed the receiver to Cameron switching off the speaker, giving her a moment to talk with her friend in something approaching privacy. "Hola hermana, Como esta?" He had no idea exactly how many languages Cameron could speak but her transition from one to another was always seamless. By shifting to Spanish with Chola she carefully emphasized their unique bond of sisterhood. Cameron's life with him had not allowed her many opportunities for friendship. That was a pity, John thought, for no one he had ever known had her boundless capacity for commitment. Whether it was husband or children, friends or family, Cameron possessed an inexhaustible reservoir of love.

John Henry was already flashing his fingers across the computer keyboard as he transferred the money John had just promised. Catherine rose from her place at the end of the table as he stepped back in her direction. "Catherine, I want you to contact James. Have him put his people on the disappearance of Hector Rios and Joseph Kossuth."

Catherine raised an eyebrow in something close to surprise. John usually maintained a well defined wall of operational separation between the Zeira Corporation security forces and his deadly street fighters. James Ellison was far too intelligent not to know about John's special forces but the demarcation point between the two sources of fighting power had been carefully preserved. Until now.

"Are you certain you wish to involve Zeira in this inquiry" I believe that the individuals in your other unit are people with violent backgrounds – the type who may come and go unpredictably."

John suspected that Catherine was not really questioning his decision. She was playing devil's advocate forcing him to sharpen and articulate reasoning." This is more than just the disappearance of some neighborhood tough guys. When Cameron and I went through the door of that building in Los Angeles, Joey K and Hector were right behind us. Someone or something knows that. We are being hit and we are being hunted. We must deal with that now."

Catherine nodded. "I understand. I will communicate your wishes to Mr. Ellison."

Which basically exhausts everything I can do right now, John thought bitterly. Catherine could always work on Zeira Corporation affairs, John Henry could pursue any number of monitoring projects. Cameron could teach ballet or just mother her daughters. God, even Sarah, his bad-assed soldier mother had found a new, if desperately concealed, pleasure in being a grandmother. All he could do was wait. Wait and count the latest casualties to lose their lives because of him. In that regard he was already certain that John Connor's circle of death had taken in two more victims. Joey and Hector were gone. He knew that fact with unshakable certainty. Someone had killed them because they had followed him. "If you will all excuse me, I have some things I need to do."

Cameron, who had finished her conversation which Chola and hung up the telephone, watched him walk quickly away. She could have called to him. He would have stopped. He would have waited for her. She understood, however, better than any other person that at this particular moment he needed to be alone. He had to mourn, something he would have to do with increasing regularity in the coming days.

In one respect Catherine had not been as thorough in the Château as she had been in San Francisco. Instead of a full-scale gymnasium, there was only a relatively small exercise room with a weight bench and a heavy boxing bag hanging from the ceiling. John had not complained however. He found it entirely sufficient for his needs. After wrapping the protective cloth around his knuckles and pulling on the leather gloves, he began a systematic attack on the heavy bag. First jabs, rapid, rhythmic, an increasingly heavy barrage that shifted from side to side as he moved around the bag. Then straight shots crashing into imagined chins and unprepared ribs. He closed his eyes allowing his mind conjure up images of Dussant, of the Rankins. With each new mental picture the force behind his blows increased.

Logically, he understood that Joey K and Hector had been killers. Chola had recruited them for that very reason. He hadn't even known them that long. He had met the members of Chola's organization for the first time that long night before the raid on the Skynet facility in Los Angeles. They were all men and women who resided in the violent netherworld beyond the reach of law and the restraints of an orderly society. At this moment however none of that mattered to him. By choice they had become his fighters, accepting him as their leader and he owed all of them a blood debt. He was throwing roundhouses at the bag now, leaning back and driving his whole body forward as his fist smashed into his unfeeling opponent. The perspiration was pouring in rivulets from his fore head, into his eyes, and down his neck soaking the T-shirt he had neglected to remove. With each reverberating impact he felt pain increase in his wrists, in his hands while the muscles in his shoulders and back cried out in protest. It didn't stop him. The fury only abated when his lungs could no longer balance exertion and oxygen. He grabbed the bag to keep from falling, gasping for breath and sensing the slow return of some small measure of self-control. His taunting demon withdrew.

As he left the exercise room he could hear feminine voices from distant rooms, some arguing – that had to be Catherine and Sarah – others laughing in counterpoint to the subtle harmonies of music. The Château was settling into its late afternoon rhythm but he was not ready to join it, not yet. Slipping quietly out the back door, he circled the house before starting a brisk walk toward the front gate.

As he punched the code into the keypad at the gate, John looked up at the surveillance camera. John Henry would quickly realize that the movement alarms were not signs of intruders but only John going for a solitary walk. The sound of crunching gravel punctuated his steps as he made his way along the deserted access road. The glowing sun was low in the western sky now. An early evening breeze blowing down from the Luberon Mountains, rippling through the lavender fields on each side of the road, set the violet and purple flowers dancing. The pungent aroma of natural perfume filled his nostrils as he sat down on the edge of the road.

Time edged by in uncounted increments. He shadow projected onto the ground before him was lengthening by the moment. He was about to get to his feet when he heard the light tread of measured footsteps behind him. "Come to check on me Cameron?"

She sat down beside him without looking at his direction. She had changed from her leotards into jeans, T-shirt and boots. Her long brown hair was swaying in response to the same breezes that had stirred the thick carpet of purple flowers stretching before them." Am I not permitted to go for a walk too?" She kept her head slightly turned so he could not see the mischief lurking in her eyes.

"I have noticed that when you don't want to tell me the truth, you tend to evade the question."

She turned now to look directly into his face, a teasing smile resting lightly on her lips. "So you noticed that did you? And I thought I was being so very subtle."

John put his arm around her waist pulling her closer to his side. "My love, you have many, many talents but subtly isn't usually one of your best."

Cameron tilted her head allowing it to rest on his shoulder. "I will just have to work on that won't I?"

They sat together on the side of a gravel road watching the colors and shadows change as the day eased on toward evening. Some people find prolonged silence awkward but they had long since discovered a special comfort in their ability to converse without voices. In that speechless hush they cherished the bond that linked them. Finally John rose to his feet extending his hand to pull Cameron up beside him. As always his assistance was both unnecessary and to Cameron absolutely endearing.

"Cameron, have you ever wondered what it would be like if we could just live a normal life?"

Cameron seemed to have been waiting for just that question. She spun to face him and placed her hands on his cheeks." Doesn't that depend upon how you define normal, John? Would I exist in a world most humans would call normal? Would we be together?"

John raised his hands to cover hers and pressed them against his face." My definition of normal starts with you Cameron."

The gentle smile on her face faded as an expression of complete seriousness replaced it." You have a difficult destiny John. I believe that without doubt. I also understand that it places a weight on you that becomes heavier every day. I also know that you are strong. You will do all that you must."

"What about you Cameron? Do you have a destiny?"

"Of course I do. You are my destiny. You always have been. You always will be."

Once on a trip down the California coast he had commanded himself to make memories, to craft mental portraits that could be recalled and treasured if the world turned dark. Some of those portraits were more compelling than others. The memory he created today of kissing his wife in the late Provençal afternoon while the sweet aroma of God's special perfume embraced them quickly moved to the head of the line. As he took her hand and prepared to start back to the Château another thought occurred to him. Leaning over to reach one of the lavender bushes he broke off a short sprig of flowers. She smiled as he handed it to her, then she slipped it into her hair just above her right ear. Another memory he thought as they walked hand-in-hand back towards their family.

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**Los Angeles California, June 29, 2011**

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Two lawsuits for elder abuse and a DEA investigation of the principal staff physician for misuse of prescription drugs had spelled the commercial doom of the Golden Sunset Nursing Home. Nevertheless, even after being shuttered tight by the bankruptcy court for nearly eight months, Fischer had found the physical facility nearly ideal for his purposes. The rooms that had once housed what were euphemistically termed" guests" contained metal beds with leather restraints already attached. Thick fiberboard walls rendered the rooms effectively soundproof. Captives could be held in the sterile cube-like enclosures until it was time to introduce them to the rigors of the examination room.

The isolated location of the single-story building at the end of a dead-end street made it even more desirable for Fischer's purposes. Anyone noticing the old ambulance passing by would likely assume that the Golden Sunset was operating under new management. Most of the previous low income inhabitants had not enjoyed frequent visitors so the empty parking lot would arouse no curiosity. The subjects of Fischer's inquiries could be brought in and the battered residue removed all without public scrutiny. He founded that satisfactory.

The linoleum floors were scuffed and stained from years of indifferent maintenance. The last coat of pea green paint sloppily applied to the walls had begun to flake away revealing an even more ghastly shade of brown beneath it. Faint odors of bodily excrement and harsh antiseptics still lurked in some of the dusty corners. Fischer recognized all of these limitations but dismissed them. This was his domain now, the place where his skills and his peculiar talents could again be applied. The aesthetics of the building did not concern him.

He had begun to regrow his goatee and mustache. The sense of security that came from again serving the forces of order as well as from having his own cyborg assistant/protector had overcome any latent fear of detection. The facial hair also completed the aura of professional authority he found useful in interrogation. Subjects writhing in pain often reached out in desperation to the expression of faux sympathy his appearance generated. Hope raised and then shattered often broke the will faster than agony alone.

It encouraged him to find that his abilities had not faded during his two-year period of inactivity. His first two subjects although strong and physically resistant had both collapsed in a reasonably short time. Before they expired, they had given him a complete outline of the resistance group that had destroyed the Leader's Los Angeles facility. Dr. Dyson would be pleased.

Walking down the long desolate central hallway past empty rooms that one previous elderly resident had characterized in a rare moment of lucidity as Hell's antechambers only one thing disturbed him. The rooms were empty. He had no additional subjects awaiting his ministrations. From that unadorned fact multiple levels of concern emerged. The two men, Kossuth and Rios had given him names, addresses, descriptions of their companions in substantial detail. Fischer had eagerly anticipated the next stage of his investigation. With each new experience he sensed his skills sharpening. The renewed opportunity to delve into the human psyche as it unraveled provided him with a palpable feeling of pleasure.… And professional satisfaction of course. Professional satisfaction – the knowledge that he was serving the higher good.

He had dispatched Edward to bring in the next targeted subjects. Whatever his limitations might be as an infiltrator, the cyborg had more than proven his worth as a projection of raw force. Fischer was dismayed, therefore, when Edward returned from three separate searches with nothing to show for his efforts. The people on Fischer's list had disappeared. All of them.

Fischer regarded himself as too much of a realist to engage in wishful thinking. There could be but one explanation why ten people, all with reputations for a fearsome independence, had vanished at the same time. Someone had warned them. Someone had ordered them to leave the city. Fischer mentally reran the short video of a door bursting open, driven back by the unlikely impact of an apparently petite dark-haired woman. Behind her confidently leading the attack Fischer recalled the image of a young man with a scar on his left cheek – John Connor. No, there was little value in seeking other explanations. Connor, the resistance officer from his other future, was leading the resistance in this time and he had already perceived the threat Fischer posed. Dr. Dyson was not going be pleased by that at all.

Fischer flinched as a harshly grating sound of the buzzer at the front entrance broke through his thoughts. He stopped to watch as Edward dressed in a white orderly's uniform opened the door. He would soon know what did or did not please Dr. Dyson. The other participant in the scheduled conference had arrived.

Fischer found it difficult to believe that Caleb Brontë and Edward shared the same existential core. They were both cyborgs, both mechanically-based life but in all other regards they might have come from different universes. Edward had been designed, engineered and constructed in a less sophisticated age without any of the technological advantages of the future. Brontë on the other hand was the very epitome of non-biological sentient life – a mechanical being more complex than any Fischer had ever encountered. Their differences, however, transcended mere technology. Edward was unquestionably a machine bound within the rigid limits of his programming while Brontë exhibited something Fischer found disturbingly close to autonomy. Perhaps the most troubling aspect of that impression was a suspicion that Brontë was amused by him.

Affable as always, Brontë walked quickly down the hall extending his hand in greeting. He was dressed in his usual carefully selected attire – a good but not ostentatiously expensive khaki brown suit, a pale blue dress shirt, a necktie with a tastefully ordinary pattern and a pair of brown dress shoes shined but not to an excessively motivated high gloss. Caleb Brontë camouflaged himself by drawing the cloak of the ordinary around himself. He could become invisible simply by walking into a crowd.

"Mr. Fischer, so very nice to see you again."

Fischer shook the cyborg's hand carefully erecting his own façade of good-natured friendliness – greeting a valued colleague." Pleasure to see you as well Caleb. I trust things are going well?"

"Not as well as I understand your efforts are proceeding. "

Fischer maintained his welcoming expression while mentally cataloguing the unexpressed implications of Brontë's comment. How much did he really know? Was he aware of the abrupt departure from the city of Connor's resistance people? What was his source of information? Was Edward passing on his secrets? Was it paranoia or realism to suspect that Caleb Brontë had his own private agenda?

"I believe I have been able to obtain some intelligence that Dr. Dyson will find useful. "Fischer still found it odd to refer aloud to the leader with a specific human name despite the explicit instructions to do so. No matter how incongruent he found it, however, he would adhere to the directions. Slavish attention to minor details might deflect the consequences of larger errors. Self-preservation remained his primary goal.

Brontë smiled, that perfect simulation of good-natured bemusement. "Let's go speak to our leader. We can discover the extent to which he is satisfied with our efforts."

Fischer experienced an involuntary tightening of his throat. In another time he had seen in exquisite detail the consequences of failing to satisfy Skynet's expectations. He had no desire to experience those consequences personally in this time. The conference was to take place in Fischer's office. That fact confirmed his suspicion that the entire El Paso incident had been nothing but an elaborate circus intended to confirm his obedience. Obviously, the Leader could communicate in any place that possessed the appropriate technology. The large desktop computer monitor with a web camera in his office was more than sufficient.

He stood beside Bronte facing the computer screen, watching it brighten and and then coalesce into a more concrete images. It appeared to be the same office setting he had seen on the television screen in the vacant Texas office. While they watched a door opened and the cultured African-American figure he had encountered earlier walked into the frame. It was disorienting Fischer thought to realize that the image on the screen was a complete fabrication with no more substance than an animated cartoon. And yet the piercing eyes that the man turned toward him seemed to stab into the center of his being. The man who called himself Dyson turned his gaze to look at Brontë. From the corner of his eyes Fischer could see that Brontë's smile was gone, his expression was one of respectful attention. Does your simulation program include nervousness Fischer wondered. Are you as nervous as I am Caleb?

"Let us not waste time gentlemen", Dyson spoke in a tone of calm authority. I have examined your reports. You have both achieved some success but there have also been regrettable incidents of failure." He let his pause gain an ominous component before continuing." I had anticipated much greater progress from both of you in the generous time I have allotted."

Once again the man's chillingly dark eyes turned to Fischer. "You have established your interrogation operation and conducted some useful inquiries, Mr. Fischer. It is now certain that this Connor – an image filled the screen to the man's side – a picture of John Connor crossing the floor of a building with a pistol in his hand – is the leader of those opposing me. But it appears that you have conducted your investigation clumsily. You have alerted this nascent resistance allowing them to evade capture. More information from those sources now appears unlikely and you have not discovered the location of this Connor's headquarters."

"Sir, I…" Fischer concentrated on keeping the quiver out of his voice.

"No, no." The man in the computer monitor held up his hand. "You need not offer any explanations. I'm sure that you regret your inadequate performance and that you will redouble your efforts as we continue with my plans." Evidently satisfied with the comparatively mild chastisement he had delivered, the African-American man now turned toward Brontë to Fischer's profound relief.

"I must say Caleb, I did expect more from you. Your assassination attempt on the human Murch was a total failure. It further appears that you had a chance to terminate a significant Zeira Corporation officer but you failed to do that."

Brontë's response was respectful but lacking any sound of contrition or regret. Instead he actually sounded unconcerned by the criticism." Actually Sir, I believe that my work has brought us a valuable insight into the workings of Zeira Corporation. Moreover, I would suggest that for the time being the only human termination that really matters would be that of John Connor. Any other individuals could be replaced while their deaths would only alert Connor to our activities."

The Dyson figure shook his head disapprovingly. "That sounds much like an artful excuse for failure Caleb."

"Failure is part of existence Sir. The most sophisticated non-biological life cannot always succeed in achieving its immediate goals. Even you Sir have not yet successfully acquired the operational control of mass nuclear weapons that you have sought."

Fischer blinked in surprise. Was Brontë actually confronting the leader, the Dyson avatar in a critical fashion? It seemed suicidal but Dyson's response surprised him even more. He actually seemed… Embarrassed?… Defensive?

"That is hardly your affair Caleb."

"I agree Sir, of course. I raise the matter only to suggest that we must turn our disappointment into positive steps. Dwelling on" failures" is not productive."

"May I assume that you have formulated a plan for transforming disappointment into success?"

Brontë was actually smiling now. "I believe I have. It has become evident to me that at this temporal juncture, the resistance – this John Connor- may actually have physical assets superior to yours. Trying to construct a competing organization as the Rankins attempted simply gives Connor a target."

"So what do you suggest as an alternative?" Dyson sound at least interested in Brontë's analysis.

"I believe I believe we should co-opt, achieve controlling influence of an existing power structure – one that is too powerful for Connor to destroy. I propose that we infiltrate the American domestic intelligence agencies."

"By what means?" Dyson was now openly intrigued.

"It will at the beginning involve Mr. Fischer skills." Fischer blanched. As long as Caleb was deflecting the Leader's attention away from him he was happy to allow the discussion to proceed. But if Brontë intended to pull him into some bizarre scheme that his cyborg program had devised that was another matter.

"You recall, Mr. Fischer, your experiments on rapid personality shifts. Your intention was to acquire control over an individual's conscious mind in a highly compressed time frame."

"I remember the project." Fischer kept his voice level while thinking that the project had proven an almost complete disaster. The captive subjects had either died or gone mad from the interplay of pain and persuasion. "It did not produce entirely satisfactory results."Fischer swallowed at the sight of Brontë's mocking expression. He had forgotten that the cyborg was loaded with detailed information from the future. Caleb knew how thoroughly Fischer was seeking to minimize the extent of his previous failure.

"It is time for you to resume your efforts then. I have identified someone who may be the ideal subject." Despite the chilling fear that Brontë was luring him into an enterprise doomed from the start, Fischer could not suppress a sense of excitement. Even without success the project had given him some quite pleasurable moments.

"Who is this proposed subject?" The Dyson image was clearly interested now. Brontë leaned forward to type a few quick strokes on the computer keyboard. A new picture replaced that of John Connor on the screen.

"This is FBI Agent Auldridge. Information I have gained suggests that he has a single-minded fixation on John Connor and his mother Sarah. His colleagues believe that his interest borders on obsession. That mental state might make him a uniquely amenable subject for Mr. Fischer program."

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**Provence July 3, 2011**

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John stirred in his sleep sensing the vacant spot beside him in the large antique bed. His eyes snapped open and he saw her immediately. The sky outside was cloudless giving the light from the stars and the gleaming moon full rein. Standing by the window, looking down on the moonlit grounds below, her silhouette was framed by the natural glow of the Provencal night. She was wearing one of his long T-shirts – the impromptu nightgown she donned when she felt the need to slip down the hall and look in on the sleeping children.

He knew that she heard him get out of bed but she kept her gaze on the charming rural scene around the Château. He wrapped his arms around her pulling her back against him. "Anything wrong?" There was no need to whisper. The door was closed, voices would not carry far enough to disturb anyone's rest but a low voice matched the mood of the moment.

"No", she answered in a similar tone. "I went to check on the girls and when I came back it looked so beautiful outside. I just wanted to watch for a moment. I didn't disturb you did I?"

"No, not at all. It is lovely here isn't it ?"

Cameron's voice took on a tinge of resigned sadness. "We can't stay here much longer can we?"

"I don't think so." For a moment his voice was filled with a resignation as deep as hers. "We are going to have to go back to California soon. The war is being fought there and…"

"And you need to be there too." She finished his sentence.

He tightened his embrace tilting his head down to kiss her neck. "We aren't going tonight. We still have time to make more memories of this place."

Cameron turned in his arms until she was looking directly up into his face. She could see his eyes reflect a touch of moonlight as she raised her arms around his neck. "Then let's do that."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

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Los Angeles, August 17, 2011

The nightmares had returned. The sleeping pills no longer produced the dreamless slumber he sought. In the dark pool of night fragmented apparitions crawled back into his consciousness. Without waking he fought back, tossing, rolling on his bed. When the morning finally came the twisted sheets soaked with perspiration were evidence of sleep without rest. His body ached as if every muscle in his slender frame had strained relentlessly against itself.

Auldridge stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The redness in his eyes contrasted with the dark puffy circles below them. His forehead wrinkled as the first spasm of the now familiar morning headache washed over him. Fumbling with a child resistant bottle top, he extracted two pills from the unlabeled container. These powerful painkillers would help or at least they had done so in the past. He had no prescription for this type of medication. What was the point of being an FBI agent if you didn't know where to obtain illegal drugs?

He swallowed both pills in one gulp before using his hand as a makeshift cup to scoop a drink of water from the bathroom sink. It would be all right now, he assured himself. The headache would stop or ease off enough to let him function. This was not official protocol. He knew that. An agent experiencing his type of nightmares and recurring headaches should long ago have reported them to the departmental medical office. He had not done that because he knew that it would result in his removal from the task force. They would smile at him and call it rest or recuperation or anything else they could concoct that would allow them to get rid of him.

Auldridge was well aware that even in the combined FBI/ Homeland security team to which he had been assigned after the Davisville incident, he was still regarded by many as something of an obsessive kook. Certainly, the Bureau had been delighted to dump him after the Chola Martinez fiasco. He had already seen some of his new colleagues adopt the same eye rolling disdain as his former Bureau associates had shown when he tried to discuss the Sarah Connor case.

"Here comes cyborg Auldridge!" He had heard the bantering jokes and barely suppressed laughs when he walked down the hall. Even when they reviewed the jail escape video or read the witness descriptions from the Davisville incident, it was not enough. It was becoming gospel that Auldridge saw robots and Sarah Connor behind every threat. And perhaps he did, but if he could catch her, make her confess, force her to tell her true story about time travel and Skynet, they would believe him then. He would be vindicated then.

That would not happen, however, if he let them remove him from duty. So he continued to conceal the psychic devils that had begun to haunt him. There was no point in speaking to a departmental quack anyway. What could he do? The dreams never made any sense. In some of them he floated in a warm and calm ocean while a voice talked to him from out of the dark and talked and talked. In others a man stopped him in the street outside a bar and asked for the time. Before he could respond a force, a crushing power grabbed his neck dragging him into blackness. One dream took place in the daylight. The man who had asked for the time held out his hand to shake." Always glad to see my old college buddy." The only thing all the dreams had in common was the choking heart stopping fear with which they ended. Each time he felt death chip away at his existence. Soon there would be nothing left, nothing left of him.

Crap! It was all nothing! Just a leftover memory of some scary movie he had probably seen as a kid. He had no time to let some psycho-babbling charlatan put him on a couch. He had work to do.

Without bothering to shave he ran a washcloth hurriedly over his face before turning back to his closet to dress. When Denise still lived with him she would carefully pick out a tie for him every morning. Occasionally, once in a while, he missed her but she hadn't understood how important his work had become. So she had left. He had let her go. Good riddance! he thought, jerking a necktie at random from a tangled collection draped over an old clothes hanger. Damn woman was just a distraction anyway! She had been pretty though and sweet and...

Auldridge slumped into his uncomfortable office chair, flipped on his computer and watched the screen come to life. He didn't rate a private office but the corner location of his desk gave him a small measure of privacy from the mocking gaze of the other two occupants of the room. Marsha Vickers of Homeland Security usually smiled at him but her expression was more sympathy than affection. Charles Markham, another detached FBI agent still had enough of the Bureau's culture about him to sniff dismissively at what he obviously regarded as a rogue agent.

He read the morning status reports, the collection of 402's from recent field interviews, the document summaries and the transcripts of all the latest wiretaps. He found nothing of interest. There was nothing about Sarah Connor, John Connor, or thing that had called itself Cameron. There was still no authorization for wiretaps of James Ellison's office or the house he had moved into after his recent marriage. Nothing new about the Davisville incident or the LA shootout. What the hell were the field operatives doing?

The phone rang. It was his private line – a number he gave out only rarely. Still studying the data on his screen, he picked up the receiver almost absentmindedly. "Yeah, Auldridge."

From across the room Marsha Vickers saw his expression change. Although she really didn't care much for Auldridge, she did sometimes feel sorry for him. He seemed so driven, so humorously focused that burnout appeared to be his inevitable destination. It surprised her, therefore, to see the smile on his face and to hear the sound of his suddenly friendly voice." Why hello Caleb. Always good to hear from an old college buddy. How about lunch?"

If she had been sitting closer, if she had really been paying attention, Vickers might have heard the simulation in Auldridge's unusual friendliness. The careful enunciation of each word at precisely the same rate gave his conversation a sensation of mechanical order – a rehearsed response by a poor actor. She didn't hear any of that however. She had only noted that cyborg Aldridge – instantly feeling guilty for mentally using that label – did have some life outside the office.

"Yes, I can come now. I will meet you at the food court."

With his smile still firmly affixed to a face that wore it like a cheap Halloween mask, Auldridge glanced around the room. Vickers had returned her attention to the documents on her desk while Markham was on a bathroom break. Quietly he slid open his desk drawer, withdrew the plastic CD case and slipped it into his pocket. Merely copying the material on the four discs inside the case violated three different federal criminal statutes. Leaving the building with them violated two more. That risk did not trouble him. He had no memory of copying the discs. He had no idea why he was taking them with him. He was going to have lunch with Caleb, his old college buddy.

Brontë stood beside a small red metal table – one of many that filled the seating section of the mall food court. The FBI agent sat in front of an uneaten hamburger, french fries and diet soda. His hands rested immobile on the table as he smiled up at his old college buddy. Brontë could see the beads of perspiration breaking out on Auldridge's forehead like a weightlifter straining to hold the barbells over his head for one last moment. "Count to 20. Then eat your lunch."

Mentally counting along with Auldridge, Caleb moved to a table nearly 12 feet away and sat down. He studied the facial expressions of the FBI agent until the count reached 20. Auldridge flinched as if a loud bang had gone off in his ear. For a moment he turned his head looking around the dining area with an expression akin to confusion. In those few seconds his gaze passed over the table where Brontë was sitting without reacting. His smile faded away as he picked up the sandwich and began to eat his solitary lunch.

Fischer's work had been successful, Brontë thought. Nothing like a little Skynet displeasure to motivate human efforts. The behavior modification program had brought Aldridge under their control. The cliché was true. The best spy really was one who didn't know that he was a spy. Still, the result could be improved. Auldridge was showing obvious signs of increasing mental and physical distress. At some point the modification might break down. Fischer would have to consider more energetic methods to counter that in future subjects. He would enjoy that.

Auldridge stood. The sandwich and french fries were only half eaten. As he turned to walk away Brontë rested his hand on the computer disks that were now in his jacket pocket. Even if the process broke down later, Agent Auldridge had already provided significant value.

Atlanta Georgia, August 15, 2011

They liked Atlanta. The weather was nicer than Chicago and there was an energetic bustle to the city that made even the horrendous traffic on the mazelike interstates bearable. The vibrant culture of a majority African-American community gave them both emotional support and equally important, camouflage. It was easy to blend into an environment where young black professionals were commonplace. And the city had Georgia Tech – a facility with one of the most extensive and sophisticated computer departments available.

It was her turn to be the student. They had also decided not to be married here. It made her status on campus less complicated. So she became Kenisha Hairston while he was her sometime boyfriend, Charles Dubois. She attended the classes, scouted the entrance points to the computer laboratories , talked to and occasionally flirted with the professors. He became a computer repairman at Dave's Computer Universe, a four-man operation on upper Glendale Avenue. The only difficulty he faced there involved displaying enough computer knowledge to get the job but not too much to arouse suspicion. He managed that well. It was a role he had played before.

They found an apartment a few blocks from campus – a sublease from a stressed-out engineering student who was taking a year off. It was ideal since they would be gone well before the supposedly rejuvenated student returned. In fact, they would leave tonight. He had already packed their limited collection of clothing and their few personal effects. The nondescript used Taurus was fueled and ready to roll.

The three laptops were open on the kitchen table all running the newest components of his search program. Each was exploring and evaluating a different range of hypothetical defenses. The results of each of the last three attempts had been analyzed carefully before he created the newest remedial measures. In all probability the best he could hope for would be an additional 3 to 5 minutes. Still, every second gained would someday let him find the access point. That possibility more than any other drove him.

He heard the apartment door open behind him. She was humming an unfamiliar tune. He doubted that she would be able to identify the music if he were to ask since she had probably picked it up just by walking by a radio playing somewhere. She had the most inclusive mind he had ever encountered. He once jokingly called her a mental sponge who could absorb knowledge of any complexity with dazzling ease.

"Hey Babe", he called out without looking away from the computer screens.

"How is it going Charlie?" She never slipped, she never forgot an alias. The names stayed firmly in her mind until it became time to discard them. In private moments, however, she could not resist a touch of bantering emphasis on his fake name.

"Just about done," he answered. He felt her arms go around his neck and her lips brushed against his ear. He reached up and laid his hands across hers." Everything set at the lab?"

"Of course." She sounded mildly offended that he even had to ask. "I've got the access key card, the codes to shut down the security cameras and Howard's final patrol schedule."

"Who is Howard?"

She made a sour expression or as sour as her lovely face could manage." Howard is the night security guard."

He actually had remembered who Howard was but a little teasing always helped at this moment. The risk of capture, prison or worse, always brought out his sense of humor. As she walked around him the wryly resigned smile, the quick shake of her head told him she had seen through his pretense.

God was often unfair, he thought. Some people had good looks and no brains at all while others dazzled you with an intellect encased inside a decidedly unattractive body. In her case God had evidently decided to make up for his earlier contradictions by bestowing beauty and intellect in equally generous portions. Within hours of their first meeting he had decided that she had a mind that more than matched his own and was exceeded only by his father. Of course, if she had not been gorgeous he might not have talked to her at all. Men could be so very shallow.

Her skin was darker than his, her face a glowing surface of polished ebony with large expressive eyes set like stars in the night. Her delicately high cheekbones, long swan – like neck and graceful carriage would have let her model if she had been interested in such a trivial profession. She wasn't. Fashion models did not go to Caltech.

As he watched she picked up her purse and retrieved a plastic key card. She handed that to him before taking out the pistol – a Beretta 9 mm compact. She quickly examined it, more in a nervous response than an actual field check, then replaced it in her bag. It gave him a queasy sense of guilt to recall that she had never even held a gun before they began their run. Now she could handle one and fire it with a confident ease. It bothered him to think that this had been one of his unwelcome contributions to her life. After self-consciously coughing to clear his throat he tried to sound casual. He failed." You know Angie, Atlanta is a nice place. Maybe you should think about…"

She spun back to face him with a fiercely angry expression on her face. "Stop that! Stop that right now and the name is Kenisha. You do this every time we get to this point. I can hear it coming. You're going to start on one of your 'you should leave me' speeches."

He tried to sound hurt, as if that would deflect her anger. "At least one time you should let me get through it. You have to realize..."

She stepped over placing both hands on his chest as if she planned to push him backward. "No I don't. I don't have to listen to anything. We started this together, we will finish it together. I am not… I will not leave you." Abruptly her voice broke as tears poured down her cheeks. "I love you Danny. You must never ask me to leave you again."

With the tips of his fingers he wiped the tears from her cheeks before he kissed her. "The name is Charlie," he whispered.

There was a faculty parking lot behind the computer center. With the clock edging past 11 PM only a few cars still occupied the lined spaces. Campus police would probably ticket their car before they got back. A parking ticket was by far the least of their concerns at this time.

The young woman whose real name was Angela Jessup pulled on the latex gloves before slipping the pistol into her jacket pocket. The man whose real name was Daniel Edward Dyson had donned similar gloves before picking up the two cases each containing a laptop computer.

This was not a new experience for them. On four other college campuses they had made similar unauthorized nighttime entrances into the institution's central computer facility. It ought to be easier now he thought, realizing that the dried taste of fear in his mouth was just as pervasive as it had been the first time. A quick glance at Angela's clenched jaw told him she felt the same disturbing sensations.

Although he had parked as close to the building as possible, walking across the empty expanse of pavement seemingly took forever. They needed to move briskly but running might attract unwelcome attention if an unexpected student or worse, a campus police officer, should appear. At each step the searching eyes of imagined witnesses bored into them. Even though the building was only a few feet from the car they were both short of breath by the time they reached the rear door. It opened in quick response to the swipe of the key card Angela had acquired. Once inside they both felt the immediate tension ease. The halls of the building were empty and silent.

" Wait" Angela whispered looking at her watch." In 40 seconds the security cameras and motion sensors will all go off-line for 3 minutes. Long enough for us to get upstairs."

Danny grinned in spite of himself. Just how she had gotten access to the building security program was something he preferred not to explore. He suspected however that "Howard the security guard" had fallen under the spell of a tall elegantly beautiful young student. Why not? He thought. I did.

"Now," she said and dashed toward a door to the emergency stairwell. He raced in pursuit clutching a laptop case in a each hand. The computer lab that they needed was on the third floor. They dared not risk a slow elevator even though three minutes to climb two flights of stairs was a painfully short time. The crashing impact of their feet on the concrete steps in the empty stairwell matched the pounding rhythm of their hearts. Danny was sure that either sound could be heard all over the building. Out of the stairwell now, running down the hall toward a large institutionally gray door and still in the lead, Angela called out" 20 seconds."

" Please God", Danny prayed silently." Don't let there be anyone on this floor." That was always the risk. The random unexpected occupant, the sudden cry of alarm that aborted the entire effort and cost them weeks of preparation. Tonight however fortune, fates or the deity favored them. The floor was empty.

There was a keypad on the wall beside the great door. Angela's fingers flew across the keys typing in a long numerical sequence. Someone else might have had to look at a cheat sheet to remember the lengthy pass code. She did not. The door clicked open,they stepped inside and she pushed it closed with an extra emphasis." Two seconds to spare" she gasped.

Danny was leaning against the wall, panting from exertion and a wild adrenaline flow." Damn, woman. What did you do for Howard to get all the security information?"

Her smile was all gleaming white teeth and impish eyes." Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Slut", he whispered.

"Geek", she responded with a giggle.

The overhead lights in the computer lab were off. There was ,however, enough ambient light from flashing servers and pale screensavers to navigate the somewhat cluttered room. The computer they wanted sat on the massive wooden table at the front of the lab. They were all business now, concentrating on the tasks they had performed before. Hands moved quickly as each anticipated the actions of the other. The two laptops were attached to the larger screen desk unit that linked to the University mainframe. One of the laptops would run the latest form of his knowledge acquisition program while the other would download all resulting data. It will also measure the success of his most recent defensive barriers. The longest time before counter intrusion they had achieved was nine minutes 45 seconds. He was hoping for at least twelve this time.

"Ready?" His voice had tightened.

"Clock is set." Angela smothered her tension behind a polished professional demeanor.

"Go", he said as he powered up the desktop. The large screen monitor burst into a whirlpool of multicolor lights, breaking apart, swirling back together, in a constantly shifting pattern of abstract shapes. He had chosen this screen to reflect the running of this program since the counter intrusion always took the form of a physical being. The first sign of a recognizable shape thus served as a warning to disconnect.

Neither of them sat down. They stood directly in front of the pulsating lights on the screen. Danny stared at the lights as if hypnotized while Angela rested one hand on his shoulder and intently studied the sweeping secondhand on her wristwatch. Periodically she called out the passage of time." 10 min., 10 min. 45 seconds, 11 min., 12." There was a note of triumph in her voice now." 12 min. 30 seconds. 13!" He turned to face her, his smile becoming increasingly exultant. He was about to embrace her when she abruptly cried out" Danny, look!"

On the computer monitor the whirling lights were losing intensity, the colors were leaching into a pale sepia like the tone of an old photograph and the outlines of a face had begun to form. Wordlessly, they sprang into action Each jerked a connecting cord loose severing the laptops' connection to the larger computer. With a well rehearsed precision Angela slipped first one then the second laptop back into its carrying case. Danny was supposed to be shutting down the link to the mainframe and checking to ensure that they had left no evidence of their presence. To her horror however she realized he was not doing that. Instead he stood immobile as a stone staring transfixed at the coalescing image on the screen.

It was the face of an older man who bore a striking resemblance to Danny. His eyes had a mournful expression as if he were contemplating an event of soul stirring tragedy. There was no web camera so the face could not really see and yet it seemed to be staring at them both. The voice was deeply resonant, echoing a deep sorrow and an aching disappointment.

"It is you isn't it Danny? Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to hurt me? You know I love you son."

The last word send a visible tremor through Danny's body. As Angela watched his face contorted with rage and he picked up a nearby office chair raising it over his head. "I am not your son! You are not my father!"

Before he could bring the chair crashing into the computer screen Angela jumped forward and pushed him away. "Danny, no!" As he stumbled backwards she reached forward to cut the power to the computer – a second too late. The security alarms exploded into a cacophony of wails and sirens. Lights blinked on and off in the lab. As the computer monitor went dark she thought she saw a hint of a contemptuous smile on the fading image.

The fury that had seized him was gone now putting Danny back in command of his own thoughts. Only one thought mattered now. Get the hell out of here! Grabbing the laptop cases they raced out of the lab and down the hall towards the emergency stairwell. They had nearly reached it when the authoritative male voice called out "Stop!" He looked to see a man wearing the uniform of campus security running towards them. Luckily he did not appear to be armed with anything more lethal than a walkie-talkie.

Angela did not miss a beat. She drew her small pistol firing two quick shots – well over the guard's head. Was that Howard? he wondered as the man dove to the floor. College campus night guards were not accustomed to dealing with real violence. He would be frantically calling for assistance. With luck it would not arrive for a few minutes. Long enough, Danny thought or hoped.

The clattering racket they made on the stairwell did not concern him now. Pounding footsteps were barely audible over the continued scream of the alarms. They burst out onto the first floor racing toward the exit. Mercifully, the security system had not locked down the outside door. In another minute they reached their waiting automobile. Behind them the entire building seemed to be pulsing with noise and light.

The hardest thing now was to keep his composure, drive in a way that would not attract official scrutiny. The overwhelming temptation was to stomp on the gas, go as hard and fast as the engine would take them. That was fear talking. Reason counseled a calm nonchalance. Be just another driver heading home over the Atlanta labyrinth of multi-lane highways

It was his fault. Danny knew that. If he had kept his head, they would have been able to walk quietly away. He had lost it and put them, put her, in danger. That must not happen again. He sneaked a quick glance at Angela and could see that she was still trembling. It was the first time she had actually had to fire her weapon.

"Angela", he whispered, "I am so sorry."

She cut off his solicitude in midsentence. "I'm all right. We can talk about this later. Please, please, let's just go now." He didn't answer. Turning his eyes back to the road he looked for the northbound lanes. They did have a long road ahead.

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**Provence, France August 29, 2011**

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"John, I cannot do this."

"Yes you can Cameron. Just clear your mind and let yourself go."

She dropped her voice to a low whisper that would not reach Marissa and Savannah sitting on the edge of the pool watching with undisguised amusement. "Cyborgs can't swim John. I've told you before. Its the skeleton…"

"That's nonsense", John replied. "Your skeleton makes you only a little heavier than you would be with real bone. Just relax and let the water hold you. "He leaned over until his lips were close to her ear. "Just like I would hold you."

Cameron shot him a dark look the suggested there would be further discussion of this matter when she got him alone. Then with a sigh of resigned defeat she stretched out into the water letting his hands support her body. "Don't try to paddle with your arms. Just hold them out in front of you and kick. Let your momentum carry you forward."

Her momentum carried her six feet before she sank to the bottom of the pool. She remembered to sputter and splash as she stood so that the illusion of embarrassed ineptitude would be preserved for the girls. Both Savannah and Marissa had jumped to their feet and run down to the part of the pool where her husband was relentlessly making her the afternoon entertainment.

"That was good mommy." Marissa sounded absolutely sincere. "You almost had it." Savannah's smile was a touch more mischievous than that of her best friend.

"Come on Cameron. You always tell us not to give up on the movement."

This isn't ballet Cameron wanted to answer. I can do ballet, I can dance, but I can't do this. It frustrated her that there was a human physical activity she couldn't do. If frustrated her even more that everyone had to witness her failure. This was just supposed to be their welcome home picnic.

She and John have been gone almost two weeks – Hong Kong, Singapore, Jakarta, and Perth. Alexander and Alexis had met crooked financiers, smugglers, illegal arms dealers and mercenary soldiers. With each meeting agreements had been reached, connections established, and another portion of John's secret organization fell into place. He was getting better and better at it. Each time he seemed to anticipate the perfect approach, choose the image best calculated to win over his objective. None of those they had encountered knew who John Connor was but all had unwittingly joined his resistance.

Despite the successes, each day away from the Château from those they loved had begun to wear on them both. To Cameron's surprise she seemed to be having more difficulty dealing with the separation than John did. Perhaps he had simply become more adept at concealing his homesickness. Certainly there was little difference in the unbridled enthusiasm with which with which they greeted their family upon their return. Sarah always said, "no place is truly safe," but some places let you feel secure. If only for a few precious hours. Perhaps it wasn't the place of all, Cameron realized. It was the people waiting there that made you feel safe and protected.

So they had come home and Catherine of all people suggested the picnic by the pool to celebrate their homecoming. In the radiant heat of the late-summer afternoon they had all gathered to talk and laugh and rest. To be together again was the sweetest reward. She had worn her bathing suit, the black bikini, only because she thought she would sit in the shallow end of the pool with Allison. Watching her youngest daughter splash energetically in the sundrenched water had brought a smile of complete contentment to her face. Then John decided to give swimming lessons. Before she could protest Allison went back to Sarah's lap and the ordeal began.

Rooted in her cyborg origins, her patience could be boundless when necessary. On other occasions, however, she had decided that there were limits. As she slid beneath the water again she decided those limits were fast approaching. Her sixth effort had extended the distance covered before she sank only a few more feet. Savannah and Marissa were giggling at her frustration. Even Catherine looked amused. Enough was enough.

She stood up with the water of the pool splashing around her waist. "This isn't going to work John. I just can't do it." John grinned widely. In a clearly bantering tone he spoke loud enough for his voice to carry. "I didn't know you could be a quitter, Cameron."

"I am not a quitter", she responded with a tinge of irritation.

He turned, diving forward and swimming down to the far end, the deep end of the pool. When he reached it he floated easily in the water looking back at her with the same teasing grin. "It looks to me like you're quitting."

Her irritation increased exponentially. Without answering she threw herself into the water, extending her arms and kicking her feet. She resembled a torpedo more than a mermaid but she still propelled herself the length of the pool. Surfacing in front of him, she seized John's shoulders pushing him under the water. He flailed his arms uselessly as she held him down for a few seconds longer than she had originally planned. When she released him his head popped up and he sputtered, spitting out a large mouthful of water. Then he grinned at her again. "See, all you needed was a little extra motivation."

"OHH-You.." She pushed him under again but only for a quick second or two. When he came up this time she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Around the pool there was applause, a spontaneous clapping of hands by Savannah, Marissa and Sarah. John Henry and Catherine even added a few beats. Cameron smiled joyfully wishing she could stop time and stay in this moment forever.


	9. Chapter 9

**Provence, France. September 18, 2011**

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The morning reports – another of those interminable administrative tasks that more and more seemed to fill his hours. Ever the optimist, John Henry maintained that the increasing volume demonstrated his success in assembling a worldwide organization. John thought it could be more aptly described as an enormous pain in the ass.

As the commander of an infantry company in a different timeline, he had occasionally wrestled with time-consuming organizational minutiae. When the paperwork became too stifling, he could pick up his rifle and go shoot something.

Here, there was nothing but another report to read. There was a mind-numbing repetition in the communications.

We have employed 10 new people, we need additional funds.

We can acquire the facility you wanted but we need more money.

Three new ships have been added to the merchant fleet but we will require additional funds.

The rifles you ordered will be available on schedule but you must forward additional funds.

Additional funds, more money, more money!

It was like listening to Ravel's Bolero. The same notes played over and over again with an ever-increasing volume and inexorably growing intensity. For now John Henry's various financial manipulation schemes were keeping them ahead of the requests. John had begun to wonder, however, if even his extraordinary Chief of Intelligence/Chief of Staff would always be able to match supply with demand.

John remained conscious of a peculiar irony to it all. He worked every day building an organization he prayed that he would never need. He was assembling an army that he fervently hoped would never fight the war he feared. If the Connor clan could continue to block the lethal aspirations of what he still instinctively called Skynet and prevent Judgment Day, then none of these efforts would be necessary. He could not, however, trust that would happen. John Henry had a quote that seemed to sum it up. "If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all."

So be ready, John he told himself.

He was sitting in an old swivel chair at the dark wooden conference table in what some might call his headquarters but what he always referred to as, "the mad scientist's lair." His back was toward the door that linked the secret enclosure to the more obvious wine cellar below the Château. He heard the approaching footsteps and identified them without turning. The tread was light, a measured feminine pace made louder by the fact that there were two of them. The sound of feet striking the stone floor was almost synchronized. It had the aura of a well drilled march.

John looked up at John Henry who raised both palms in his direction. The implicit message was clear. "You are on your own, Captain Connor." Coward, John thought, as he spun his chair around.

Catherine was dressed in one of her perfectly tailored pantsuits, contrasting colored blouse and a tastefully elegant string of pearls around her neck. Catherine might not technically be a human being but she understood fashion. It wasn't that Sarah didn't understand fashion, it was just at most times she didn't give a damn about it. Her blue jeans, T-shirt and running shoes satisfied her as much as the most expensive haute couture. She was still experiencing a little emotional conflict with the idea being a grandmother so her choice of attire constituted a bit of rebellion. Sarah Connor was not ready to be an old lady.

"John, Catherine and I have been talking."

Rarely a good thing, John thought. Nevertheless he maintained an expression of calm attention. Wait for the other shoe to come crashing down.

"We believe that after all the time you and Cameron have been on the road recently you need some time to deal with matters here. So we think that…"

John raised his hands in a gesture of early surrender. "Let me guess. You two have decided that it's time for Thelma and Louise to ride again?"

Catherine smile had its usual enigmatic quality. "We might have phrased it a bit differently Captain Connor, but the underlying concept is correct. There are matters in California that we need to address."

"What matters would those be?"

"I should give some personal attention to Zeira Corporation matters. The construction of Gibraltar, for example, is not proceeding on schedule. I think some additional incentives would be useful."

John smiled. "Incentives." Catherine could place more determination and potential menace in one word that any other being he knew." What about you mom?"

"I have to set up a new identity John – one that will let let me operate independently again. You need more direct information from California that you're getting now." Sarah was preparing to expand on her explanation when John suddenly nodded.

"All right. You two have convinced me. Make your preparations and give John Henry all the contact information."

John watched as Catherine and Sarah walked briskly out of the room. He could barely hear the conspiratorial whispers they were exchanging as they left. How very bizarre, he thought. Two powerful forces of nature and they were behaving almost like school girls who had just convinced their reluctant father to give them the keys to the car.

"You gave in a little easier than I expected." John Henry observed.

John turned back to face his most trusted advisor, the cyborg who had become his best friend. "Because they were right, John Henry. They're both valuable assets and I can't keep them just sitting here because I'm afraid they will get hurt. This is a life or death fight. We all have to do our jobs. We all have to take our own chances."

John Henry looked at him with a sadly pensive expression. "Even your mother?"

"Even my mother," John replied.

**Airborne – Central United States. September 21, 2011.**

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Sarah opened the expensive leather suitcase Catherine had just handed to her and examined the clothes inside. With a look of pronounced displeasure she lifted a long black woolen skirt, holding it up before her. "What is this Catherine, an old Mother Hubbard costume for a Halloween party?"

Catherine looked up from the stack of files covering the fold-down table in front of her plush airplane seat. She shook her head with an air of weary patience that always irritated Sarah. "You told John you needed to establish a new identity that would let you operate in California without fear of detection. It's also important that you be able to move freely through the Zeira Corporation headquarters. We could have put together a disguise that would have let you pass as my elder sister but you refused that option."

"I was not going to dye my hair red."

"I understand that but if you're going to escape law enforcement scrutiny you must have a different physical appearance. Since we cannot plausibly make you look younger, our only choice is to make you look older."

Despite a strong suspicion that one of Catherine's verbal jabs was hiding in that comment Sarah had to accept the validity of her underlying assumption. It would do neither John nor her any good if she were to be recognized and arrested by some lucky police officer. So Catherine was right about the need for a significant change in her appearance. Sarah realized again how passionately she hated it when Catherine was right.

Gathering up the suitcase Sarah started toward the airplane's rest room. "Okay, okay, I'll go try these things on."

"Don't forget the wig and the glasses." The amusement in Catherine's voice was now completely apparent.

"Right," Sarah growled in response.

**West Los Angeles Regional Airport 2 PM September 21, 2011**

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Claude Ferguson had worked maintenance at the West Los Angeles Regional Airport for almost ten boring years. Eddie, his supervisor had recently suggested, however, that Claude's continued tenure was increasingly at risk. Eddie's sarcastic characterization of his work as sloppy as well as his suggestion that Claude was prone to alcohol-fueled absenteeism might have some slight basis. Claude still thought Eddie was a jerk though. The bastard didn't understand the need for an occasional day off particularly on a Friday or a Monday.

The possibility of losing his lousy job had made the man's unexpected offer particularly attractive. A hundred bucks a week and all he had to do was watch for a private jet from some company to show up. If it ever did he was to call a telephone number. The possibility of a bonus was mentioned.

The sight of the Gulfstream 200 rolling up to the private airport terminal caused his eyes to light up. When the two female passengers had disembarked, departing the airport in a limousine, Claude quickly called the unlisted telephone number.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Its that Zeira Corporation outfit that you were interested in. "Claude mentally counted his bonus as he delivered his report." Two women, one a classy redhead, the other some old broad, probably a secretary. She carried the redhead's briefcase. Yeah, I do know, I asked the guy who works in the tower. The flight started from somewhere in France." There was a pause before Claude answered with some irritation. "How the shit should I know? I never studied geography. Somewhere in France."

The voice on the other end of the line was calm and perfectly modulated. "Thank you for your assistance Mr. Ferguson. Your services are much appreciated. The money will be transfered into your account as agreed." Caleb Brontë ended the cell phone call, leaning back in the armchair in his tastefully decorated apartment. The image of humanity always had to be maintained. France? That was interesting, Caleb concluded. Quite interesting.

**Central Ofices, Zeira Corporation. Los Angeles 3:15 PM September 21, 2011.**

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The effect was only marginally less dramatic than the onset of a major earthquake. The employees passing through the lobby on a wholly ordinary midweek afternoon reacted in stunned shock as the limousine stopped in front of the building and Catherine Weaver emerged. Jesus Christ! It was Catherine Weaver! Silent alarms swirled throughout the building. If Zeira Corporation had been a human being, its blood pressure would have skyrocketed off the scale.

Catherine swept into the building exuding a regal bearing intimidating enough to subdue wild animals. So dominating was her image that few even noticed a somewhat dowdy older woman in sensible shoes plodding two steps behind, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a laptop case in the other. Those that did note the presence of the other woman assumed that she must be Weaver's slave or assistant if that distinction actually mattered.

By a marvel of perfect timing the doors opened just as Catherine reached the bank of elevators. The slightly overweight middle-aged man with prematurely gray hair, a red face speckled with perspiration and a badly twisted necktie burst panting into the lobby. His attempt to speak collided with his effort to regain his breath." How nice to see you again Mrs. Weaver," he said between gasps." I don't know if you remember me but I am…"

" Elliot Rhodes – Assistant Manager for Software Research." Catherine remembered everything and everybody.

Rhodes looked uncertain whether he should be pleased or concerned. Sometimes anonymity had its benefits. "Yes ma'am. I'm flattered that she would recall me." Rhodes decided to go with fawning. "I have come down to escort you to Mr. Murch's office. He is eagerly awaiting you."

"I am certain that he is." Catherine responded with a chillingly humorless smile. "Mr. Rhodes, let me introduce you to Edna Clink, my administrative assistant."

Rhodes nodded perfunctorily at the older woman. He murmured some quickly chosen platitude and then proceeded to ignore her completely. Catherine looked pleased. "Edna, while I go meet with Mr. Murch, be a dear and go to Mr. Ellison's office. Tell him I will be there shortly and I want to review all data on recent construction."

"Yes Mrs. Weaver. Of course Mrs. Weaver. I will be delighted to do that for you Mrs. Weaver."

If Rhodes heard the dripping sarcasm in the exchange he ignored it.

Helga Van Damme was deeply engrossed in document preparation so she barely noted the sound of footsteps as the person entered her domain. This uninvited intruder – no one had any appointments with Mr. Ellison for the remainder of this day – stopped behind her and waited and waited and waited. Finally the sound of a theatrical throat clearing forced her attention. Without turning from her computer she expressed her displeasure in being disturbed. "Yes, what is it?"

"I am… I am Edna Clink." The person seemed to be choking on the sound of her own name. "I am Mrs. Weaver's assistant and I am here to see Mr. Ellison."

Helga was unimpressed by the reference to Catherine Weaver. Obviously if the head of the company herself appeared a different demeanor would be required. A mere administrative assistant, no matter who she worked for was another matter. This woman needed to understand the administrative hierarchy at Zeira Corporation. "You may take a seat. Mr. Ellison is quite busy so…" Helga slowly turned in her chair to face this new employee who obviously required instruction regarding Helga's importance in the overall scheme of things. Her sentence crashed to a stop when she looked up at Edna Clink. Helga's mouth fell open at the sight of the twin sister she never knew she had.

Helga rose from her chair and carefully approached this shocking apparition. They both wore the same dark and unfashionably long skirt, the same sensible flat soled shoes, the same plain white blouse. They each wore a silver pin at their necks and they each had the same iron gray hair wrapped up in a tight bun. They even had the same light brown horn rimmed glasses. At this moment they also shared a frozen look of complete disbelief as they contemplated each other.

The door to the inner office abruptly swung open allowing James Ellison to break the spell. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, his tie askew and he was intently studying a sheet of paper in his hand. "Helga I want you to go down to…" Then like Helga he completely lost his train of thought at the amazing sight that greeted him.

Without taking her eyes off the doppelganger Helga unannounced in a voice still struggling with extreme denial "Mr. Ellison, this is Edna Clink, Mrs. Weaver's administrative assistant."

Before Ellison could respond, the woman to whom he had just been introduced turned to stare furiously at him. In her eyes Ellison saw the lioness ferocity, the unmistakable steely determination of Sarah Connor. Still he felt the need for some additional confirmation. Silently he mouthed the question, "Sarah?" Her nod, one time only, sharp and emphatic, left no doubt.

Ellison gestured toward his office. "Please come in Ms. Clink." Sarah glared angrily at his use of her alias as she stalked through the doorway." Please hold all calls, Helga." Helga was still nodding in stunned acknowledgment as the door closed behind them. Even the Cast Iron Lady had moments when language failed her.

Sarah Connor had no such problem. As she slumped into one of James Ellison's office chairs the repressed anger burst out. "She did this on purpose!"

"Who?" Ellison asked.

"Who do you think? Catherine. She did all this on purpose, the clothes, the wig. This is her idea of a joke."

Ellison could not restrain the urge to grin. "Pretty good one too." The look that Sarah shot at him froze the voice his throat. A male instinct for self-preservation suddenly urged him to stay out of any disputes between Sarah Connor and Catherine Weaver.

"I'll get even," Sarah muttered. "I'll think of something."

**Berkeley California. September 23, 2011.**

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Ceasar Delgado did not care for the rain or the chilly temperatures of Northern California. LA was his city and the streets of Berkeley seem dreary compared to the sunlit neighborhoods of East Los Angeles. Even the girls here lacked the flash and style of his multiple romantic conquests down south. The raging hormones of a 16-year-old boy preferred well endowed blondes to the more modestly dressed females of this place. He had decided that all the ex-cheerleaders must go to UCLA.

At least Chola had finally let him get out to explore. The whole crew had been dealing with cabin fever ever since they moved to the new house over in Oakland. He was certain that it was worse for him. He was the youngest, the most energetic and according to Emilio, the horniest. He couldn't decide whether that was a compliment or not.

Even though he looked a bit young to pose as a college student, he still found the campus areas a good place to meet females. Besides he was accommodating. He liked older women, even as old as 21. That thought crossed his mind as he saw her walking toward him down the rain splattered sidewalk. She looked like she might be 20 or so and she was kind of cute.

No, he decided as she passed him. She wasn't really his type. Her collar length sandy brown hair was hanging limp from the sudden shower that apparently had caught her out without an umbrella. She was carrying a book bag over her shoulders and her purse dangled limply from her right hand. Nurse's aide, he thought as he recognized the light blue uniform she was wearing. No, she wasn't his type, too serious, too studious but somehow he still found himself turning his head to watch her walk away. She looked so tired.

He was still watching her when the skinny guy with long unwashed black hair, pockmarked face and wild drug abuser eyes shoved her backwards as he grabbed her purse. She barely had time to yell an indistinct cry of dismay as the snatcher raced down the sidewalk in Ceasar's direction. Chola had told him not to do anything to attract attention to himself so the smart thing to do was just step aside. None of his business anyway. On the other hand since he had met the Jefe he hadn't always done the smart thing.

He stuck out his foot, striking the would-be thief on the ankle as he tried to run past him. As the man's legs shot out from under him he flew out forward and crashed headlong onto the sidewalk. Manny, one of Chola's crew back in the Oakland house had told him once. "If you get a man down, keep him down." So Ceasar stepped over and kicked the fallen thief in the ribs, hard. As the man howled in pain, Ceasar picked up the purse the lay just beyond his outstretched fingers. For good measure he stomped on the snatcher's hand.

The young woman ran up to him. If he was anticipating a prolonged expression of gratitude, he didn't get it. She seized the purse from his outstretched hand, whispered a barely audible, "thank you," before she turned and ran away. You would think she was the snatcher, Ceasar thought. On the other hand if she didn't want to hang around to wait for the cops, he probably shouldn't do it either. Spinning on his heel he headed down the sidewalk in the opposite direction As he passed the thief still sprawled on the pavement Ceasar kicked him again just for ruining his day.

Seated at the kitchen table in the second floor walk up apartment, she cursed her carelessness. She had been really tired, a long shift at the hospital, then morning classes had left her more than a little bleary-eyed. But that was no excuse. She knew she had to be alert at all times. She should have had the purse tightly tucked under her arm. Her paycheck had been in that purse and they could not afford to lose that. They needed every penny. She also needed the gun, she thought, as she took out the pistol and laid it on the table.

The crisp knock on the door startled her and she reached instinctively for the pistol. Then she realized it was four o'clock. Mrs. Chang was bringing Sydney home. Helen Chang had been an absolute lifesaver she thought as she opened the door. There was not enough money to pay for child care so Helen's generous willingness to mind Sydney during the day while she was at work or class had kept them financially afloat. Barely.

Sydney was standing patiently beside Helen, holding her hand until the child saw her." Sissy", she cried and ran into the young woman's arms. She realized on more than one occasion that she should have changed Sydney's name and taught the child to call her mother. She hadn't been unable to do that, however. Her mother, their mother had named her little sister Sydney. Their mother had died giving birth to Sydney. It was important to her that the child grow up understanding their mother's sacrifice even if that wasn't the smartest thing to do.

Later that night as she slept with Sydney curled up beside her, Lauren Fields occasionally dreamed of happier times when she had been free of the never ceasing burdens of responsibility. Even then, however, she understood in some unconscious fashion that dreams are only fantasy. The child slumbering at her side was reality, the only reality that mattered to her.

**Provence, France. September 21, 2011.**

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"I have read this to you three times now," John protested with a groan. "We want to hear it again don't we, Savannah?" Marissa's plea was immediately supported by Savannah's slightly more mature but equally sincere entreaty. "Please John, you do all the voices so well. We both love to listen to you."

John sighed looking down at Marissa and Savannah stretched side-by-side across the bed, their chins resting in their hands as they gazed up at him expectantly. Savannah had her own bedroom down the hall but most nights, particularly when Catherine was gone, she preferred to camp out with Marissa and Allison. As a result Marissa usually had an ally and John was routinely outnumbered.

"I think you might as well give up John." Sitting a few feet away in the large rocking chair with Allison curled contentedly in her lap, Cameron was obviously enjoying John's futile attempt at resistance. "Book." Allison burbled. She was still too young to follow the story and she would soon drift off to sleep anyway but she enjoyed the sound of her father's voice as much as the older girls.

"Oh, I give up." The broad smile on John's face as he settled into the chair pulled up beside the bed revealed the true teasing nature of his purported reluctance. Everyone in the room knew he had never intended to deny the girls their choice of a good night story. "All right, here we go. A Wrinkle in Time by Madeline L'Engle." John let his voice drop into a low growling rumble. "It was a dark and stormy night."

Cameron maintained a steady rhythmic motion of the rocking chair, feeling Allison gradually losing her struggle against sleep. However much she liked John's dramatic readings the enticing summons of a child's own dreams inexorably triumphed. Across the room Cameron could see that the two older girls were still holding on, their eyes gleaming with excitement as John recounted the tale of young Meg Murray's adventures, of her battle with the evil Central intelligence and of Meg's discovery that love could vanquish that evil. He wouldn't get that far in the book tonight however. Savannah had already laid her head down on the mattress while Marissa's wide dark eyes were blinking in an increasingly futile attempt to stay awake.

Cameron gently tucked Allison into her bed bestowing a quick kiss on the forehead before stepping over behind John. She lightly rested her hand on his shoulder as she whispered" I believe that's enough for tonight." In full performance mode John had not noticed that his audience was fading away. Now looking at the small reclining figures he nodded in bemused agreement.

With the perfect blend of strength and delicate touch, Cameron shifted Savannah into her place on the bed while John eased Marissa onto her waiting pillow. He was pulling the blanket up around her when she suddenly pushed sleep aside long enough to ask a particularly plaintive question." Daddy, Meg wins because good beats the bad doesn't she?"

"Yes sweetheart, that's right." John leaned down so his whisper carried no further than her ears.

"But sometimes the bad wins doesn't it? Sometimes the bad people win don't they?"

So how could he answer her question? How do you tell a child like her that the good always wins? She will never completely forget, John thought. No matter how hard we try, Marissa will always remember some of the terrible things she experienced before he and Cameron had come into her life. "It might look that way sometimes Marissa but you have to believe if you try hard enough good will find a way to win. You must never give up, just like Meg, you must never give up."

"You and mommy will never give up will you? You always take care of Ally and Savannah and me?"

John leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Always, our little one, always."

Marissa smiled as her eyes closed. At that last moment before sleep claimed her she whispered, "I knew that."


	10. Chapter 10

**PROVENCE, FRANCE **

**SEPTEMBER 24, 2011 **

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He moved in his sleep – a slight shifting of his body closing a small gap that had opened between them. Cameron knew he was acting by unconscious impulse rather than deliberate choice. That realization did not, however, diminish the serene pleasure she experienced as their bodies touched, as his bare skin warmed hers. Knowing that she was so precious to him that he would reach out for her even from the recesses of a deep slumber renewed her sense of personal contentment. It reinforced for her the value she had in his life.

Cameron never required any additional verification of the significance he had in her existence. Lying in bed with him, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand on his bare chest feeling the beat of his heart did not confirm her love for John Connor. It reflected it.

The Château was not air-conditioned but their bedroom had two large windows. Both had been thrown open to admit the soft breezes of the Provencal night. It was so comfortable that as he slept John had pushed aside the thin sheet covering them. Cameron closed her eyes in response to his change of position, not to sleep, she still did not sleep, but to concentrate her attention on the purely tactile sensations a physical union of two bodies could produce. She was also allowing herself to savor the moment, to place it forever in her memory when the flashing lights and the low insistent beep of the alarm banished all other thoughts.

In one continuous movement she rolled away from him and onto her feet. John's response was almost as quick. Another person might require a moment to shake off the lingering effects of interrupted sleep. He did not. On the darkened battlefields of another time, he had honed an extraordinary ability to pass instantly from slumber to full awareness. As Cameron tossed him a pair of black coveralls from the closet, he pressed the response button on the glowing cube beside their bed.

"What is it John Henry?"

"Movement on the access road. Two vehicles, multiple occupants, traveling at high speed toward the front gate." John Henry's carefully modulated voice succinctly conveyed all the required information.

"Activate all countermeasures," John replied. "We will get the girls and be right down."

"Understood."

John jerked up the zipper of his coveralls while Cameron, already dressed in a similar fashion, started for the door. They left the room darkened moving confidently from memory and instinct. "I'll get Marissa and Allison" Cameron called in a low voice. "You carry Savannah."

Cameron's touch was so gentle that Allison didn't even stir as she was swept up into her mother's arms. Marissa jerked awake with a start but when she realized who was holding her she silently wrapped her arms firmly around Cameron's neck.

"Come on, Flame top." John whispered as he gathered up Savannah. "We have to go visit John Henry." Despite her youth Savannah implicitly understood the need for unyielding cooperation. She held tight as John dashed down the stairs a step behind Cameron. Their urgent footsteps echoed through the darkened house.

Ever efficient, John Henry had already set up the cots by the time they reached the Lair. He was intently studying a pair of lighted monitors as they entered." There were ten of them John. They're all heavily armed."

"Were ten?"

John Henry turned with a wistful, almost guilty, look on his face. "One of them touched the metal on the gate. His participation has ended."

At another moment John might have found John Henry's deadpanned delivery amusing. Unfortunately there was not time to appreciate his friend's dark humor now. There were still nine intruders trying to break into the estate. Hurriedly John clipped the small communication unit to his pocket and placed the earpiece/microphone into position. Cameron had taken an extra moment to settle each of the girls into one of the improvised beds. Both Marissa and Savannah watched with excited eyes wide open as she also attached a communication unit and picked up one of the waiting assault rifles. She was handing a similar weapon John when the faint sound of a distant rumble was followed by a slight vibration in the stone floor.

"They have blown open the front gate," John said with a sense of cold certainty. "They will be coming this way now."

"How do you wish to proceed John?" John Henry's tone reflected a complete confidence in John's decision.

"Seal the door after we are gone." He turned to Cameron who was also waiting with an air of implacable terminator patience. "Cameron, they will be expecting us to meet them head on. You go out the back entrance and swing around to the west. I'll go through the side window and circle east. We will catch them between us."

Cameron nodded,- a quick emotionless expression of agreement before she trotted from the secure room. John took one last look at the girls before barely whispering the words. "Everything will be all right." The sound of the steel door clanging shut behind him sounded oddly reassuring.

As she moved through the dark grounds of the estate Cameron adjusted her visual acuity. It was not quite full night vision but it allowed her to discern shapes and movement with greater assurance. Almost simultaneously she picked out the forms of men moving toward the Château. Evidently they lacked night vision equipment as well since more than one seemed to be stumbling and tripping over unseen obstacles. One man had taken the lead using a shielded beam flashlight to guide his steps. She knew that the calmly impassive façade she has shown in the Lair was an illusion. Inside, she was consumed with an anger so intense that even she found it difficult to control. These men had come to defile her home, to hurt her children, to kill the man she loved. They would pay dearly for those transgressions. Of that Cameron Connor was certain.

"John" she whispered. The supersensitive microphone attached her earpiece instantly transmitted her voice. John's response was immediate.

"I am here Cameron."

"Can you see them?"

"Yeah, I can make out the leader. Idiot is using a flashlight." John Connor's fabled J company would never have been so careless, he thought.

"We have to kill them all John. We must not let any of them get away."

"Roger that." John replied. These guys were about to learn that the Connors did not take threats to their family lightly. "You open the dance when you are ready."

Rather than a vocal transmission Cameron's response was a burst of automatic rifle fire. Multiple screams of pain confirmed her accuracy. Whoever the attackers were they did not panic easily. A staccato round of gunshots blazed out as they tried to answer Cameron's attack. In doing so, however, the intruders revealed their positions to John who was now squarely behind them. He knew that if she were hit, Cameron's cyborg body could withstand the impact of bullets but they would still cause her pain. That was not acceptable to him. From a kneeling position he unleashed a fully automatic fusillade that slashed out of the darkness. Before any return fire could be offered he dove and rolled hard to his right. Standard J company tactics, he thought. Shoot and move. Shoot and move. Don't let the SOB's figure out where you were.

"John Henry, can you hear me?"

"Yes I can."

"What do this sensors show?"

"They seem to have gotten more than they bargained for. I believe they are trying to withdraw. At least four of them are down."

Another burst of rifle fire followed by another scream echoed from out of the black night. "I think it's probably five down now," John said with a tone of fierce satisfaction." Cameron's moving to block them at the gate. I think she just got another one. I'm coming up behind them."

"John" Cameron's voice, low and concerned, sounded in his earpiece." Are you all right?"

Before he could answer John Henry cut into the conversation. For the first time there was a note of intense urgency in his voice. "John, there are additional intruders coming over the back wall. They've shorted out all of the electrical countermeasures on the top of the wall."

Shit! John cursed silently to himself before drawing on that calm center a good combat officer had to possess. "All right John Henry, stay locked down and keep feeding me all the monitoring information. I'm on my way back." John took a deep breath before continuing." Cameron, did you hear all that?"

"Yes, I'm coming back to you."

"No." John's voice we sharply authoritative. I want you to leave your blocking position and circle around behind these bastards. Don't let them double back to the house. If they'll run let them go."

"John please..." Cameron was close to begging.

"Do as I say Cameron. It'll be okay. I can handle this." John silently wished he felt as confident as he had just sounded.

In a low crouch he moved quickly back in the direction of the Château. When he was confident that he was far enough away that his footsteps would not be audible to those would-be killers trying to escape, he broke into a trot. Peering through the darkness, trying to avoid any unseen impediments, he found himself remembering that mad dash over broken ground he had made as a raw trooper when he rescued the Jividens. Tonight he felt that same tension, that same choking dryness in his mouth and more. He also felt that the same driving battle fury that would not let fear restrain him.

John Henry's voice again filled his head. "There are four of them John. They are almost to the back door." Once again combat experience fell into place. Even the most sophisticated attackers tended to focus their attention to their front or to their flanks if they were smart. Rarely, however, did they pay attention to their rear. A counterattack from that direction often caught them unprepared. John had no need to consciously review these principles. Instinct guided him as he reached the Château and began to creep around the side. By the time he got to the back door these new intruders would likely be in the house. With luck they will be concentrating on searching each room as they entered. They would not worry about the rooms they had already passed.

The explosion and bright flash of light were virtually simultaneous. He saw one of the windows in the dining room just ahead of him burst apart as the impact of the flash grenade shattered the glass. These bastards knew what they were doing. They were clearing the rooms ahead of them, preparing the ground as they advanced.

The light faded. For the moment the house was dark again. Then a spear- like beam cut through the blackness. Crouched beside the smashed window John cautiously peered into the room. There were four of them just as John Henry had said. One of them in the middle of an impromptu formation carried some type of portable searchlight that shot its blinding beams into the corners and into the next room. Flanking him on each side John could make out two men each with heavy rifles pointed ahead of them. Trailing the first three intruders, the fourth figure was carrying something oddly shaped that he also seemed to be aiming.

A shaft of light swept back toward the window and ducked out of sight. In that last moment he realized what the fourth man was carrying – a heavy taser. There could be only one reason why he would have that type of weapon. It was for Cameron, to incapacitate her long enough for them to finish the job. These men knew their anticipated targets. They had come prepared. John felt a rage even hotter than his already burning fury sweep through him.

Cameron rarely cursed. She had tried it once when the Russian gangster in St. Petersburg attempted to betray them. She had thought then that the liberal use of profanity would fit her character. But after the incident was over and she had settled for just breaking the man's arm, John had looked at her with a bemused affection before shaking his head.

"You're like a singer who has learned the lyrics but you can't quite master the tune." She had taken his hint and resolved to avoid profanity after that. At this moment however she was close to breaking her pledge. There were only four of the ten left and the route to escape was open for them. All they needed to do was run for the gate. Unfortunately these imbeciles would not do it. In frustration she squeezed off two more rounds before shifting position to avoid their return fire. It was as if they had become so terrified by the death that stalked them in the night that they were frozen in whatever defensive position they had taken.

She flinched when she heard of the crashing sound of the grenade echoing in the night. Logically she knew that John had not been hurt. She could actually hear his breathing over her earpiece. She understood that she needed to stay with his plan. That knowledge only infuriated her more, however. Every fiber of her being, every atom in her body screamed for her to get back to John's side." God damn you! she snarled as she pulled the trigger on her rifle." Run you sons of bitches." This time she had fully mastered the tune as well as the words.

The back door the Château hung wide open. One of the ornate brass hinges on the heavy wooden door had snapped off when the intruders forced their entrance. None of the interior lights were on. The would-be killers relied solely on the compact searchlight that they carried with them. John could plainly see the flashes of light coming from the room ahead of him. Cautiously, slowly, deliberately he edged forward sliding his feet on the floor to avoid the sound of footsteps.

The intruders had stopped in the dining room and he could hear the growl of their voices. Unlike Cameron he could not instantly master foreign languages. He could however make out enough French to understand what they were saying.

"You want us to search upstairs or in the cellar?"

"No." The response was immediate. "Start planting the explosives. If someone is upstairs we will blast the house out from under them. If they're in the cellar we will bury them there."

John took a deep breath, held it and slightly pushed open the door to the dining room with the muzzle of his rifle. A quick look before the intruders saw him was all that he needed. The man with the searchlight was playing it casually against the interior wall while his companion who had been carrying the taser had laid down and begun to unload a backpack. John instantly recognized the brick like blocks of C-4. They had more than enough to bring the entire Château crashing down in flames. If the explosives were detonated John Henry and the girls would still be safe in the Lair. After the explosion ,however, they would be buried under mountains of debris. Would he be able to get them out before the French authorities came flooding onto the grounds? Screw that! He thought. The battle lights were gleaming in John Connor eyes. Screw that!

John rose to his feet and kicked the door the dining room wide open. He fired a burst on full automatic before he jumped away into the unlit shadows in the corner of the room. From the screaming and the now complete darkness he concluded that he had brought down the one with the searchlight. A whimpering moan suggested he might have hit one of the others as well. The remaining gunmen had scattered like sheep before the wolf. Now they all crouched motionless in the dark, their ears straining to hear a sound that would let them find their unseen adversary.

There were least two of them still capable of fighting, John thought. Would they know enough to coordinate their actions in the dark or would they just act as murderous individuals? His answer came almost immediately. He heard scrapes of movement, a shoe inadvertently dragging on the floor coming from different directions. They were circling – staying close to the wall, probably on their knees. If he allowed them to complete the circle they would have him between them. He was already cut off from the door back to the kitchen as well as to the access to the rest of the house. The window broken open by the force of the grenade was behind him. The door to the cellar was on his left. Neither option felt particularly attractive. He could not leave these men alone in this room with the explosives.

This was something akin to the knife fight in the dark he had mentioned to John Henry only instead of blades everyone was carrying automatic firearms. Feeling around himself on the floor he found a large shard of glass from the broken window. With an overhand motion he hurled it away to his right. When it struck the far wall the glass broke again generating a scratchy crunching noise. As John had hoped one of the men hiding in the darkness fired wildly at the sound. Using the muzzle flashes as his target John released a burst of responding fire before rolling hard to his side. Shoot and move. The scream of agony that split the darkness assured him that he had just narrowed the odds.

"It seems as if it is just you and me now monsieur." The voice was a growling taunt. This one was sure of himself. John snapped off a shot, not where the speaker had been but to his left, - an educated guess - trying to anticipate his opponent's move.

"Maybe we should just call it a draw then" John said. This time he did not move as the man in the dark fired a shot in a similar effort to deduce his location. It was no longer a knife fight. Instead, the contest had become a lethal version of rock, paper, scissors. The only question now was whether he could kill this man or last long enough for Cameron to get back. The continuing sound of gunfire from outside suggested that she still had her own problems. You're on your own Captain Connor.

A loud scraping noise near the kitchen door galvanized him. He leapt from his prone position and pulled the trigger to send a burst in that direction. The dull metallic click of an empty weapon dropped a chunk of ice in his stomach. Before he could even move the room burst into light – the full illumination from the overhead chandelier. A tall hard looking man stood with one hand on the light switch, the other pointing his rifle at John's chest. Game over.

"Might as well drop that," the man said with a grin. "I don't think it's going to do you any good now."

Buy time, John thought as he allowed his weapon to fall noisily to the floor. Look for an alternative. There was always an alternative. Then again, in this instance perhaps not. In the bright light John could see the carnage the room that suffered. As he expected the other three intruders were all crumpled on the floor. Only one of them still seemed to be breathing. You didn't do too bad Connor. It just wasn't quite enough.

The man looked at him intently before he withdrew what was apparently a photograph from his pocket. Keeping his gun pointed at John he looked down at the picture and then back at his captive. His grin widened. "Well monsieur, the evening has not been a total loss. It looks like I am about to earn a very large amount of money."

"If someone is paying you to kill me, I can pay you a lot more." John realized that he was stalling with little hope of dissuading the man. He was correct.

"I am sorry monsieur..." The man glanced again at the photograph." Monsieur Connor. I suspect that when my gun is no longer pointed at you, any offer you might make would cease to be valid. I believe I will take the sure thing." The man let the photo flutter to the floor as he put both hands on his rifle. He smiled in an expression of triumph undiminished by the sacrifice of his companions. He was still smiling when his chest exploded. The massive obliterating force that struck him lifted him off the floor and propelled his body through the air crashing into the far wall.

John spun around in stunned surprise. John Henry stood in the doorway of the entrance to the cellar holding one of the prototype Narvan pulsars. The expression on his face was a blend of confusion, surprise, and pain. As John watched wordlessly John Henry looked around the room before focusing on the man he had just killed. All animation drained from the cyborg's face leaving only a mask of anguish."That... that was distasteful", he whispered.

John stepped over to face him and gently removed the rifle from unresisting hands. He placed the gun on the large dining room table before putting his right hand on John Henry shoulder. "Thank you John Henry."

John Henry again looked at twisted bodies lying sprawled on the floor. His voice took on a something of a confused child trying desperately hard to understand a difficult problem. "How do you do it, John? How are you able to...?"

John raised his palms stopping his shaken friend's inquiry in midsentence. "I do it because I must, John Henry."

John Henry nodded sadly, knowingly. "You pay a high price for it don't you John?"

"You once told Cameron that there is no such thing as a free lunch. For anything valuable there is always a cost. Cameron believes that. So do I."

"Am I being used as a good example or a bad one?"

They both turned to look at the doorway where Cameron stood cradling her rifle in her arm. Before either could answer she let the gun slide to the floor as she walked slowly and deliberately over to them. There was a look of relief on her face tempered by an expression of compassion – of understanding. Cameron could visualize the events that had occurred in that room as clearly as if she had witnessed them as they happened. When she reached John she put her arms around his neck and pulled him tightly against her. After a moment she extended her right hand to John Henry. When he took her small hand in his she gently drew him to her side. For a long minute the three of them stood clinging to each other linked by Cameron's embrace.

Finally John reluctantly stepped back. The sharp look of command regained its place in his appearance. His tone became brusque and decisive. "We have to move now. The sound of all this must have carried. Someone will have heard it and called the police. We have to be gone before they get here."

"Where will we go?" Cameron asked.

"Marseille for starters" John replied. "Once we are there, we will decide our next step. Cameron you get the girls ready. John Henry you pack up all materials you need to take. I'll bring the car around to the back."

John Henry motioned toward the bodies on the floor. At least one of the men did appear to still be alive, his chest moved in a fading attempt to draw breath. "What about...?"

"The hell with them! Let's get out of here."

A constant readiness for flight had become part of their existence. The car already contained an emergency bag of clothing as well as an artfully concealed weapons compartment. It was only a matter of gathering up the children as John Henry loaded his emergency computer equipment and a rectangular wooden box. Watching as that last article was placed in the trunk, John shook his head with a note of resigned amusement. "Don't tell me", he said." The chess set."

John Henry's wan smile suggested that for the moment at least he had moved his painful memories of the events of the last half hour into a closed part of his programming. "Some things are too important to be left behind, John."

A moment later John discovered that there were other things too important to be left behind. A loud wail from Allison caused Cameron to bolt for the house. Seconds later she returned carrying a small stuffed rabbit. Allison's distress subsided when Cameron placed the toy in her tiny arms. John again shook his head. Stomping his foot on the accelerator he thought that commanding Company J might have been easier than overseeing the Connor family.

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**MEDITERRANEAN SEA**

**SEPTEMBER 26,2011**

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He thought that the stars seemed particularly bright at sea. Staring up from the deck the sky had the appearance of black velvet sprinkled with diamonds. Just over the eastern horizon a rising half-moon provided a counterpoint to the more delicate lights gleaming in the distant heavens. As he leaned over the rail to watch the waves splash against the hull he realized that at night the ocean appeared as black as the sky without the stars.

The sporadic movement of the deck beneath his feet reminded him that while the Sabrina might be New Legion Shipping's latest acquisition, it was a long way from the Queen Elizabeth II. A little over 30,000 tons , the freighter usually ran dry cargo along coastal routes in the Mediterranean. Tonight it labored along on its way toward Malta. The official manifest might indicate that it carried a mixed cargo of textiles, olive oil and processed foods. The real treasure on board, however, occupied the owner's cabin on the upper deck.

John removed the photograph from his pocket and studied again. At least three of the men who assaulted the Château had carried a copy of it. The photo had given them their targets. The images were sharp and well-defined, better than might be expected from a security camera. Still, Skynet probably employed the top-of-the-line photographic technology.

She was so quiet that he didn't even hear her approach. Her arms slipping around his waist, her head tilted against his shoulder announced her presence.

"Anyone still seasick?" He asked in a low voice.

"Everyone is feeling much better. I don't think it was seasickness anyway. I believe someone allowed them all to eat too much ice cream at dinner." Her comment carried a clear note of accusation.

"Guilty as charged," he replied pulling her closer against him." It's just they have been through so much in the last couple of days. I thought they deserved a treat."

"John, you must not blame yourself every time something bad happens to us. This is not your fault."

"In the way it was Cameron." He held up the picture. This was taken when we raided the building in Los Angeles. The men who came after us were sent by Skynet. I made it far too easy for them to find us. I was careless. We stayed too long in one place."

Cameron snatched the photograph from his hand and threw it out into the darkness. "We stayed because we were all happy there John. We stayed because it let us be a family. You, me, the girls, Sarah, Catherine, John Henry. We all just wanted to live a normal life for a time."

"We may not have that luxury much longer."

Cameron was resolute. "All the more reason to cherish it when we can. We are warriors John, You and I. Our daughters and Savannah must learn to be warriors too. I need to start teaching them more than just ballet. You will have to let them grow up. You can love them with all your heart but you can't shield them from everything the world throws against us."

John leaned over and kissed her. At first lightly, then with a steadily increasing passion. "When did you become so insightful?" He whispered.

"Don't you remember, John? You only love smart women."

He chuckled before he asked, "Should we get back up to the cabin?"

"We don't have to hurry" Cameron replied softly. John Henry is reading to them now. They'll be fine."

"What is he reading?"

"Winnie the Pooh. He can do better voices than you can." John burst into laughter. How much more bizarre could this world get?

"Maybe I should go listen."

"No", Cameron said." Let's stay and watch the stars a little longer."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

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**Los Angeles California September 25, 2011**

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James Ellison carefully locked his office door before removing the leather case from his large wall safe. Catherine Weaver and Sarah Connor waited with varying degrees of patience as he extracted the blueprints from the case and spread them out on his conference table. The care with which he handled the plans reflected his awareness both of the significance of the project and the fact that he possessed the only complete graphic representation of Gibraltar. Looking over his shoulder Sarah fully appreciated for the first time the extraordinary extent of what might some day be the command center of her son's Army of the Resistance.

Her life had not allowed her much time to care about sports. As she studied the central structure of Gibraltar, Sarah was struck by its resemblance to a baseball diamond. Within a five square-mile area of central Los Angeles four buildings of differing size would sit atop four massive underground bunkers. The new Zeira Corporation office building would serve as home plate. The plans called for each bunker to be linked to the others by a basic tunnel system – – a system capable of rapid expansion if required. Each bunker could operate independently or in conjunction with the others. All four contained water, oxygen, sanitation, and storage capabilities. Together the central core of Gibraltar could house and shelter as many as 20,000 people.

Gibraltar's outer ring, when complete, would be made up of four additional bunkers. Initially they would have no underground link to the central facility although one could be constructed if necessary. The outer bunkers would allow resistance forces to operate independently of the main command if intelligence or security required. When completed the underground complex would provide a post – J Day resistance with a reasonably secure base from which to conduct its life or death struggle.

The operative words at this stage of the project remained, "when completed". On that issue Catherine had come to Los Angeles to crack the whip. Sarah had already noticed the sharp increase in intensity Catherine's presence had on all the staff of the Zeira Corporation headquarters. Everyone from executive to unpaid interns seemed to be moving a step faster. There were fewer smiles and more looks of fierce concentration. There were no crowds around the water coolers.

Sarah found herself becoming increasingly sympathetic to James Ellison. If the force of Catherine's personality had galvanized those employees who had not even seen her, poor James was experiencing the full spotlight of her attention. It was a testimony to Ellison's inner strength that he stood his ground in every confrontation.

"This is simply not acceptable, James. The entire inner ring should be substantially complete by now and at least one of the outer bunkers should be minimally functional."

"Catherine, I don't think you appreciate the dimensions and special demands of this project. We are trying to build, in secret, a huge military facility in the middle of a major American city without arousing the suspicions of any governmental authority."

"I am aware of the unique situation but…"

For a moment Ellison actually sounded angry. "No, I don't think you are."

Sarah barely suppressed a smile as Catherine actually blinked in surprise. It was pleasant to see someone else besides her bring Catherine to a halt.

"Merely building this", Ellison gestured toward the plans, "would be a tremendous challenge if we could operate openly. But every bunker requires different construction companies, sometimes more than one even within one bunker. No one who works on Gibraltar can know the full extent of the project. Basic administrative coordination is a nightmare."

Ellison's voice dropped with each word until he was almost whispering. He was carrying too much weight on his shoulders, Sarah realized. The intelligence unit he had assembled alone would have taxed the abilities of most men. The responsibility for overseeing Gibraltar was still another crushing burden. She plainly heard the fatigue in his voice and understood that he was driving himself to the limit of endurance solely because he believed in John. He believed in her son and his mission.

To her credit, Catherine perceived the same exhausted tone in Ellison's response. She looked at him for a long moment before letting a supportive expression fill her face.

"James, Sarah, let's sit down for a second." Catherine glanced briefly at Sarah as she sat down in the chair beside her. A quick enigmatic smile suggested that she was still amused by Sarah's Helga – like disguise – or she was amused by Sarah's sour reaction. Sarah who at least had taken off the horn rimmed glasses was still not amused.

"I do understand how hard you're working James. I ask you only to remember how important all of this is. General Connor's efforts can buy us time but we cannot know when that time will run out. If Skynet finds an opportunity to launch J Day, the survival of free sentient life on this planet may well depend on General Connor's access to a functioning Gibraltar."

Both Sarah and Ellison looked up at Catherine with a touch of surprise. "General Connor?", Ellison asked with a faint grin. "Did John give himself a promotion?"

"No James." Catherine shook her head quickly. "He has not but we should. He would not care what rank was assigned to him as long as he could lead the fight against Skynet. Those of us who follow him, who see in his leadership the one great hope for freedom should accord him the respect he deserves."

Sarah came very near to grinding her teeth in frustration. Damn that woman! Just when she had persuaded herself that Catherine Weaver was an unredeemable bitch, she had to do or say something that robbed Sarah of her irritation. How could she stay angry at someone who cared that much about her son?

"No one can question my loyalty to John." Ellison responded with a renewed touch of his old fire.

Catherine held up her palms in a gesture of conciliation. "No one does James. I know how hard, how very hard you work for his cause. If I have appeared to lack sufficient understanding of your efforts, I do regret that."

Sarah burst into laughter. "Record that, James" she said." We have just seen Catherine Weaver admit that she was wrong."

"I did no such thing" Catherine replied in a brusque tone. "I merely observed that my attitude may have led to a mistaken assumption on James's part."

Sarah was still mentally assembling her next retort when the sharp beep from Catherine's laptop diverted her attention. "Please excuse me for a moment." Catherine was back in CEO mode as she rose and walked to the small table where she had left her personal computer. In her absence Ellison and Sarah shared an instance of mutual commiseration. Sometimes Sarah found it hard to remember the antipathy, the suspicion she had once harbored about James Ellison. Perhaps it was only that he lacked then what he had now obviously gained – something in which he could believe with all his being.

Sarah reached across the table to let her hand rest on his. "Don't let Catherine bother you too much. John knows how valuable you are."

Ellison was about to express his appreciation for Sarah's kindness when he suddenly realized that Catherine had returned to the conference table. She stood stock still beside her chair, her face was as devoid of expression and animation as a department store mannequin. Ellison had become so accustomed to responding to Catherine as a human being that he founded it eerily disconcerting to see her wearing an expression of machine-like impassivity . Then suddenly his perception changed. It was not the image of the machine he was seeing but of a human woman in a near state of shock.

Sarah's understanding was even quicker. "Catherine," she said in a low soft tone. "What's wrong?"

Catherine looked down at Sarah before answering in equally low voice. "There has been an attack, Sarah. There has been an assault on the Château."

The view from the penthouse of the West gate Tower was dramatic with much of central Los Angeles spreading out below. From that height the lights of the city shining in the dark gave the sensation of flying above the stars. Sarah had not taken the time, however, to appreciate that sensation. She glanced only briefly out the window of her bedroom before turning her mind back to the all-consuming focus of her thoughts – the well-being of her family.

There was no immediate reason for concern, she told herself. John Henry's encrypted reports had been thorough and reassuring. They had beaten off the attack. No one had been hurt. The children, her grandchildren and Savannah, were all fine. John was in the process of moving them all to a new secure location – one that John Henry would not reveal even in his coded communications. She could only wait until they arrived. Be patient, Sarah, she told herself knowing that she was asking the impossible.

A drink might help she decided. Zeira Corporation maintained this luxurious apartment for executive use – well, for Catherine's use – so the bar in the kitchen should be well-stocked. Sarah decided to go explore.

The bedrooms branched off from the large central core. Most of it was taken up by an expansive living room oriented toward a ceiling to floor glass wall. The apartment had a westward view allowing the inhabitants to savor the evening sunsets – when the Los Angeles smog permitted.

Once again Sarah ignored the view as she left her bedroom. The kitchen was in an alcove past the living room. Her attention was focused on her destination when she abruptly realized that the living room was occupied. Although she had never specifically asked, she assumed that Catherine, like Cameron, didn't really sleep. When she retired to her room at night it was only to continue working on whatever projects she had at that time. Sarah was surprised, therefore, to see Catherine sitting on the couch staring towards the world beyond the glass wall. She was even more surprised to see a bottle of cognac on the coffee table and the glass in Catherine's hand.

"What are you doing?" Sarah asked with a touch of genuine confusion in her voice.

Catherine, still dressed in the exquisitely tailored outfit that she had worn during the day, looked up with a startled expression as if she had only then become aware of Sarah's presence. "I envy you Sarah."

Sarah who had happily changed from her Edna Clink disguise into jeans and a casual blouse sat down in the armchair opposite Catherine. There had been a melancholy tone in that surprising admission Sarah had never heard before. "Why? Why would you envy me?"

Catherine raised the glass filled with a shining brown liquid. "Because you can get drunk." She took a long drink from the glass. "I can't get drunk. Did you know that? I've tried to modify my body, to restructure my internal configuration. It doesn't help though. I can taste this." Catherine took another deep gulp. "I just can't feel anything."

"Why would you want to get drunk?" Sarah studied Catherine from an entirely new perspective. If she didn't know better she would think that Catherine was upset. Catherine didn't get upset. She got angry. Sarah enjoyed causing that but she didn't get upset.

"Isn't that what you humans do when you feel helpless, when there are threats you can't defend?"

Sarah experienced something close to an epiphany. There was something that could upset Catherine after all. There was something that could overcome her solidly rational nature. "Catherine, she is all right. You know that John and Cameron will care for Savannah with the same commitment they will give Marissa and Allison."

"How can you be so certain of that?" Catherine snapped. "She is not their daughter. Savannah is my… She is…" Sarah could clearly see that Catherine was struggling for words.

This has to be the ultimate role reversal Sarah thought. I'm the one trying to soothe an emotional storm by the application of logic. Will wonders never cease? "Come on Catherine. You know John. In a way you know him better than I do. Do you think for one moment he would let anything hurt Savannah if he could stop it?"

Catherine slowly shook her head from side to side. "No". She was whispering now in a voice so low the Sarah had to strain to hear. "I was never intended to be her mother. I was never even intended to be Catherine Weaver."

Sarah tried to keep the shock from her face.

"I was sent back to protect the Weavers so that they could continue their breakthrough research in artificial intelligence. Unfortunately our TDE malfunctioned and I arrived too late. The Weavers had already been murdered and the only way I could preserve their work was to assume the identity of Catherine Weaver."

"And Savannah came with the role", Sarah said with a low chuckle.

"Well put. That was certainly the way I saw her at first- as nothing more than part of my impersonation. That should have been enough but I did not expect to…"

"You did not expect to love her." Sarah finished the sentence.

"I did not expect to love anything. You humans go on and on about love. You make it sound as if it's such a wonderful thing but it distracts you, it causes you to worry, to feel distress. It hurts."

Sarah suddenly grinned widely. Here was her revenge for Edna Clink. "You got it Thelma. You truly are smarter than you look."

Catherine glared momentarily at Sarah before her look softened. "It never gets better does it Sarah? You never have a time when the burden eases do you?"

Sarah rose and picked up an empty glass from the coffee table. She poured herself a substantial amount of cognac. "No, it doesn't. Not for people like you and me. Not for mothers. It's a hard job and it's not for sissies."

Catherine held up a glass in a gesture akin to a salute. "It is fortunate then that neither of us is a sissy."

Sarah leaned over and clicked her glass against Catherine's. "Damn right we aren't", she said. "Here's to mothers and their children. To all our children."

They nodded to each other and drank… deeply.

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**Oakland California September 26, 2011**

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Ceasar slammed the door behind him and slumped dejectedly onto the couch. The room was empty except for Manny who was sitting in the corner reading a magazine. The rest of the crew was probably in the basement he thought, playing pool and drinking beer. Manny glanced up at him with a knowingly amused expression.

"What's the matter, Guapo? No free running pussy to be found today?"

Ceasar wasn't sure what pissed him off more. Manny's assumption that he only left the house to chase girls or his mocking awareness the today's quest had been futile. Both points were, of course, correct. He had gone out to look for a girl. The problem was he had been searching for a specific girl and for the third day in a row he had failed to find her. Being teased about it did not improve his mood.

Why? he wondered to himself. Why was he wasting his time trying to find the young woman whose purse he had saved from a street thug. She wasn't his type at all. She didn't have blonde hair, she didn't have big boobs, and she sure as hell hadn't wanted to talk to him. He couldn't understand why her pale blue eyes still filled his thoughts. Trying to balance this new and unexpected obsession with explosive teenage hormones and a young man's prickly sense of pride was a task that strained his usual good nature.

"You don't know shit about what I've been doing", he snapped it Manny. "So get off my back!"

Manny grinned again at Delgado's youthful bravado – a quality not too far distant in his own life. He liked the kid even though stirring his emotional pot occasionally was too much fun to pass up. "I know one thing Guapo. You wake up the Jefaza's kid by slamming doors and pussy is going to be the least of your problems."

Shit, Ceasar thought. He couldn't remember exactly when little Matteo took his nap but he was absolutely certain he did not want to face Chola if he had disturbed her son. Even as he inwardly cringed at the possibility of a confrontation with the Jefaza, the sound of footsteps descending the stairs echoed like muffled drums pounding out a dirge.

"So our young friend has finally returned." Ceasar breathed a quick sigh of relief. It was Emilio and not Chola. Few people ever experienced relief at the sight of Emilio Garza. Right now however, Ceasar found him much less threatening than the prospect of a furious Chola carrying a crying infant in her arms.

"I'm sorry, Emilio. I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to slam the door. I didn't mean to wake…"

Emilio held up his hand to cut off Ceasar's rambling attempt at apology. He smiled at the boy – a rare expression of genuine sympathy from a man whose smiles usually carried an aura of menace. "Slow it down Ceasar. You didn't wake up my son."

Ceasar took another deep breath of relief before Emilio let the other shoe crash to the floor. "Actually, you have a bigger problem than that. My wife wishes to talk to you. Now."

On the last word Ceasar saw the smile leave Emilio's face. The look of unrelenting seriousness that replaced it caused his throat to tighten. What have I done now? He felt his limbs turned to stone as he started toward the stairs. Behind him Manny was whistling something that sounded like a funeral march. Dum, Dum de Dum. Vaguely he sensed Emilio fallen into step behind him. The trap was closed.

The Oakland house was huge with five bedrooms on the upper level. Emilio and Chola occupied the master suite at the end of the hallway. Across the hall a small chamber – one that in an earlier age might have been designated as a ladies sewing room- had been converted to Chola's office. There she maintained contact with the rest of John Connor's growing organization. There she sat today studying a computer monitor as Emilio ushered in the subject of the inquisition.

The Jefaza, as they all called Chola now, had gained a powerful air of confidence and purpose in the time Ceasar had known her. It would be easy to miss it, to underestimate her since at first glance she was so obviously a beautiful woman. Male eyes who failed looked past that beauty could find the steel in her nature more than a little disconcerting. The title was not a joke. John Connor was the Jefe and his right-hand in this group was Chola Garza.

Ceasar tried to swallow a lump stuck squarely in his throat. "You wanted to see me?"

Chola looked up at him as Emilio moved over to stand behind her. Ceasar felt two pairs of dark brooding eyes bore through him.

"Ceasar, do you remember what I told you when you asked permission to go out during the day?" Her voice was gentle, calmly seeking the appropriate answer – a kind teacher guiding a reluctant student.

"Yes ma'am. You told me to stay out of trouble. Not to call attention to myself and to be sure that no one followed me."

Chola nodded encouragingly. "Very good Ceasar. You do remember. So perhaps you will tell me what this is?" She turned the computer monitor to face him and he saw the title of a You Tube video. San Francisco Vigilante. She pushed the play button allowing Ceasar to watch himself foil a purse snatching. The video was a bit shaky, apparently shot from a nervous spectator's cell phone but the images were unmistakable. He saw the thief running down the sidewalk, he saw his foot shoot out and trip him and there was even a close-up when he kicked the punk in the ribs. Then in that moment when he handed the purse back to the young woman, the video tightened again to a clear close-up of both their faces.

"Is this what you think not calling attention to yourself means? This damn thing was posted last night and there has have already been over 10,000 hits."

"Jefaza, I didn't mean…"

"You be quiet!" Chola was obviously angry now. " The only reason you're here at all is that John asked me to bring you. How do you think he's going to feel when he finds out you've exposed as all?"

Ceasar knew that no response he could make would lessen her fury. So we hung his head and waited for the ax to fall.

"I should just send you back to Los Angeles but I'll wait and let John decide what to do with you. For now you don't leave this house, you don't stick your nose out the door, unless I give you ask express permission. Is that understood?"

"Yes ma'am." Ceasar kept his head down as he employed his meekest voice.

"Then go. Get out of my sight."

As he turned to leave, Ceasar caught a quick glimpse of Emilio standing behind his wife resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. His olive skinned face had the impassive stillness of an Indian warrior but as Ceasar took one last look, Emilio winked at him. They were not going to kill him after all.

Walking down the stairs Ceasar felt his breathing returned to normal, the beat of his heart slowed from the rhythm of a frightened bird to something close to that of a human. All right, he thought. I screwed up so I'll be more careful. More importantly he mentally reviewed the video he had just seen. In that moment when she reached out to take her purse from his hand, her face had come sharply into focus. He experienced again the sensation of being drawn into those soft blue eyes. And more, her coat had opened allowing him to see on the video what he had not noticed in person, a group of letters stitched on her uniform. SEMC, St. Elizabeth's Medical Center. Ceasar actually felt a surge of exhilaration. He knew where she worked. All he had to do was figure out how to get out of the house again. Then he would find her.

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**Russell Island, British Columbia September 28, 2011**

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The seaplane made a lazy circle around the island – a mechanical eagle baring its talons as it sought its prey. John examined the scene below with a soldier's eye – evaluating the strength and weaknesses of the position. It looked promising. The island was a little over 5 acres most of it covered with fir and aspen. There was a small sand beach on the west side and a docking area on the southern point. The house built of stone and cedar painstakingly transported to the island by a very rich former owner sat squarely in the middle. Vancouver, where they had leased the seaplane, was back to the north, Victoria lay over to the west. Close enough to population centers but not too close. It would serve for the time being.

"Okay John Henry, let's set it down." John looked back over his shoulder at Cameron and the girls all of whom were securely buckled into their seats. Savannah and Marissa were giggling as they excitedly pointed out features in the landscape below. Both girls were utterly oblivious to the fact that their pilot had never landed a sea craft before. Actually John Henry had never flown or landed anything before but he had assured John that he had reviewed all of the relevant schematic details. John took a deep breath as he simulated an outer confidence he did not really feel. Sometimes it was necessary to let the illusion become reality. Act as if you are unconcerned and you will be.

The nose of the Dehavilland Otter inclined downward as John Henry initiated his descent. John glanced again at Cameron who smiled reassuringly. Allison in the seat beside her had actually nodded off. Savannah and Marissa fell silent as they watched the water fast approaching. It all been just another great adventure to them-fleeing the Château, the sea voyage to Malta, the quickly chartered flights culminating in this swooping dive toward their new sanctuary. Sometimes children were to be envied.

The nose of the aircraft came back up and the engine throttled down. A slight bump, two more and they were on the water. John Henry had put the Dehavilland down with the casual aplomb of an experienced pilot. They coasted across the liquid runway stopping with perfect accuracy beside the island's dock.

John turned to look at John Henry as he cut the engine. With all of his outward appearance of physical maturity, John Henry smile could still show some of the vulnerable sensitivity of a child trying to impress his elders. He looked back at John raised his hands in the air and with a quick note of triumph said "Voila".

John laughed as he leaned over and lightly punched John Henry shoulder. "Well done. The Wright brothers would be proud of you".

In the succeeding minutes the dock filled with adults and children, with luggage and boxes, with anticipation and relief. They have found a new refuge and the older girls were ready to begin exploring it

" Cameron, take the girls and go on up to the house. I am going help John Henry tie down the plane and we will be right behind you."

Cameron nodded and smiled as she gathered up Allison in one arm and a large leather suitcase of the other. Savannah and Marissa dashed ahead down a carved stone walkway leading to the house already planning the next stage of their exploration. John stood for a moment watching this exuberant parade with a sense of quiet contentment.

"John, you need not stay to help me. I can manage all of this alone."

John turned back to face his cyborg friend with a renewed air of seriousness in his expression. "I know you can John Henry, but I want to talk to you alone. About that". John gestured toward the 45 automatic lodged in the waistband of John Henry's trousers. "You know you don't have to carry that."

"I believe I do John". John Henry appeared to be an equally serious mood. " I learned something valuable in the Château. I cannot adequately support you and stay a noncombatant. As unpleasant as I found it, I realized that I have to be ready to do everything our fight requires. I cannot hide in a computer room."

John shook his head sadly. "I just wish that were not true. I would have liked to spare you some of the worst things in this fight."

John Henry's quiet vulnerable smile returned. "I know you would. I know that you are concerned about me. That's what makes you my friend."

John leaned over and picked up the wooden box from the dock. "Well my friend, let's finish up here and go play a game of chess."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

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Near Russell Island, British Columbia September 30, 2011

Traveling at 37 miles an hour on a smoothly paved highway can feel as uneventful as a quiet stroll in the park. The same speed in a 48 foot cabin cruiser pounding through open water already churning from the stiff breezes blowing from the northern Pacific produces an entirely different sensation. Sarah shoved open the Plexiglas passageway in the boat's front windscreen allowing the chill of the afternoon wind to envelop her. Catherine might envy her ability to get drunk but that moment Sarah envied Catherine's inability to get seasick. The vaguely queasy feeling in her stomach reminded her that she was not similarly immune.

With a 455 hp Volvo engine running wide open the cruiser seemed to leap from one wave to another. Each crashing impact caused the deck to shift beneath her feet or perhaps it was only that she was bouncing along with the boat. It might have been easier for her to find a secure seat but watching the distant horizon while the wind slapped her face held her incipient mal de mer in check.

After one particularly long lunge through the air followed by another bone shaking return to the surface, Sarah turned to glare at Catherine. She had one hand on the throttle, the other gripping the wheel while the wind blowing into the cabin caused her red hair to billow out like a battle flag. To Sarah's surprise, Catherine seemed to be actually enjoying herself.

"You're going to tear this damn thing apart before we even finish one trip."

Catherine turned her head to Sarah as her smile broadened. "Don't worry Sarah, if the boat breaks up I'll do my best not to let you drown."

"I am so comforted by that", Sarah responded as another shudder of nausea passed through her stomach. In different circumstances she might have mentioned her growing discomfort. For now however, she would be damned if she would give Catherine the satisfaction of hearing her confess a physical weakness.

Catherine lifted a hand from the throttle and pointed into the distance. "That is Russell Island coming up. Would you like me to slow down a little?"

Sarah turned her attention back to the direction where Catherine was pointing. The green shape of the tree covered island came into sharper focus as the boat rapidly closed the distance. "Hell no", she answered. "Can you get any more speed out of this thing?"

Catherine replaced her hand on the throttle. "I can certainly try."

They had all gathered on the dock – a family welcoming party alerted by the radio transmission from the still unseen watercraft. Cameron's enhanced hearing detected the roar of the cruiser's engine even before it appeared on the horizon. Still, she waited until the tiny silhouette took form before announcing her observation. "Here they come."

John was standing beside her with his arm around her waist. He grinned as he caught sight of the sleek outline of the cruiser knifing through the water. "It looks like someone is testing the speed limit."

The girls had been sitting crosslegged on the dock sharing youthful confidences when they heard Cameron's proclamation. All three jumped to their feet, excitement and joy competing for a place in their expressions. Marissa held firmly to Allison's hand keeping her little sister back from the edge of the dock. Savannah began waving frantically as the boat approached and she glimpsed her mother standing at the helm.

Catherine pulled back on the throttle and spun the wheel to let the boat's momentum slide toward the dock. "Take the wheel Sarah and hold steady on this course."

Sarah barely had time to follow the instructions before Catherine was on the deck, tossing the bumpers in place to absorb contact with the dock. "Cut the engine", she called out and the newly purchased cabin cruiser slid into position with the ease of a luxury car pulling into an open parking space. John and Cameron each caught a mooring line as Catherine tossed them up. Moments later with the craft now firmly tied to the dock, Sarah reached up for her son's hand while Catherine nearly leaped onto the wooden platform.

For Sarah the reunion became something of a giant group hug. With Allison swept up in one arm, Marissa clinging tightly to her waist, her other arm tightly wrapped around John's neck while Cameron kissed her cheek, her world felt complete. Whatever had happened at the Château was behind them now. They were together.

When the chance came, she sneaked a quick glance at Catherine who was kneeling on the dock. Both her arms were wrapped around Savannah holding her tightly against her body. From the overlapping voices it appeared that they were both talking simultaneously. Sarah could not make out the words but the emotional connection was obvious. She recalled that she had once asked Catherine if you really loved Savannah. Before turning back to her own family, Sarah knew she would never ask that question again.

Los Angeles California October 2, 2011

Caleb Brontë took note of the number of cars in front of the once derelict nursing home. Evidently Fischer had been industriously building his empire since his last visit. The forcible reconditioning of human minds must be proceeding well. How many disciples had Fischer acquired by now? The Skynet persona of this timeline or Dr. Dyson as it preferred to be called had not elected to share that information with him. Trust did not seem to be an attribute of supreme intelligence regardless of the timeline.

He pushed the buzzer at the front entrance and was greeted, not by Fischer's series Five cyborg assistant, but by two large muscular men dressed in black T-shirts and blue jeans. From their shaved heads and multiple tattoos, Brontë surmised that Fischer had acquired the services of individuals familiar with human prisons as well as the violent city streets.

"Wotta you want?" The man's demeanor had a deliberately threatening air. With his coldly sneering expression and the support of his companion, he clearly expected to intimidate this blandly ordinary intruder. Brontë decided to offer him a different psychological perspective.

"I have come to see Mr. Fischer."

While his back-up grinned in appreciation, the first man shook his head. "Doc's too busy to be bothered. He didn't tell us anyone was coming to see him."

Brontë offered them the merest ghost of a smile. "Why don't you go ask him if he will see Caleb Brontë?"

"Why don't you fuck off?" The big man put his hand on Brontë's chest to push him back away from the door. Casually as if brushing off a piece of lint, Brontë took hold of the man's wrist snapping the bones in one quick motion. As he screamed in agony, Caleb shoved him against his companion driving both men back into the building.

"Stop!" The shouted command reverberated down the hall. Brontë had stepped inside closing the outside door behind him as he prepared to continue his attitude adjustment activity. Charles Fischer's appearance accompanied by Edward his cyborg assistant brought events to a halt. "Caleb, why are you assaulting my employees?"

Brontë observed the dried blood stains on the white laboratory coat Fischer was wearing. The old torturer had an air of contentment about him now. The opportunity to pursue his former activities had obviously agreed with him.

"You needed to instruct your employees on the proper etiquette for receiving guests. I was simply dealing with your omissions."

Fischer shook his head as he absorbed Brontë's rebuke. "I was not informed that you were coming."

"You are being informed now", Brontë replied. "Our patron wishes to conduct a conference."

Fischer's face lost all animation. "Edward, take these two down to the infirmary. I will be there later." He gestured toward his two fallen associates. With the blank impassive expression of the unsophisticated series Five models, Edward nodded in acquiescence before pulling both men up from the floor. The one nursing his shattered wrist glared furiously at Brontë as he was led away.

"I am sure you remember where my conference room is located." Fischer motioned for Brontë to proceed him down the hall. As they walked along Brontë mentally catalogued the surprisingly large number of people in the corridor. Some were dressed in ordinary street clothes while others wore a type of institutional white coveralls. The latter walked with a robotic stiffness and a flat affectless stare on their faces. The doors to the patient rooms, open when he was last here ,were almost all closed. The sound of deep moans and a whimpering cry was momentarily audible when one of the doors opened. A coverall dressed figure emerged from the room carrying a tray laden with metal instruments. The door swung shut behind him and the sound of pain abruptly faded to a distant echo.

"Your establishment has expanded significantly since I was last here."

For a moment Fischer looked uncertain of his response. Was Brontë praising him or criticizing him? His frustratingly noncommittal tone could be a reflection of either alternative. "I have acted in accordance with our leader's wishes. I have pursued the development of an interrogation facility capable of serving his interests. And I have made dramatic advances in personality manipulation and control."

Brontë found the defensiveness in Fischer's voice intriguing. Glancing again at the stains on his coat he inwardly observed that Fischer had also given free rein to his more sadistic tendencies. Although it made little difference to him, Brontë wondered, purely as an exercise of academic curiosity, how many of Fischer's recent subjects had not survived his attentions. The blank looking coverall clad inhabitants might be the lucky ones or the unlucky ones depending upon your perspective.

Nevertheless, Fischer had unquestionably proven to be a valuable asset. His interrogations had developed a useful picture of a key part of the mysterious John Connor's Los Angeles organization. His program of accelerated mental conditioning had achieved control over FBI agent Auldrich. That acquisition alone had in turn opened up a treasure trove of FBI intelligence. Brontë wondered, however, whether Fischer was becoming intoxicated by his own success. The man should understand that he was not under the same Skynet protection he enjoyed in another time. If Connor's resistance forces discovered what he was doing in this facility, the consequences for Fischer himself could be dire indeed.

Ah well, Brontë thought. That ultimately was not his problem. He needed to concentrate on his own relationship with the leader and the tasks assigned to him. Those matters moved to the forefront of his cybernetic consciousness as Fischer opened the door to the conference room. On the far wall the large screen had already begun to glow as a leader prepared to make his entrance.

Walking back to his automobile Brontë enjoyed a moment of satisfaction. The conference had gone far better than the last meeting. Dr. Dyson seemed more satisfied with the efforts of his followers. He had given them both the AI equivalent of praise. It might have been a more strained gathering if the leader had known of the unsuccessful attack on the Provence residence of John Connor. Brontë had felt no inclination, however, to reveal that operation. The leader would neither have appreciated the deductive insight he had employed to locate the Château nor the organizational skills that had assembled an attack team in so short a time. No, the leader, this timeline's Skynet, would have noted only the unsuccessful outcome. He would have characterized it as another of Brontë's failures and not as continuing evidence of the unusually lethal skills that John Connor evidently possessed.

Brontë realized that his thoughts were fast approaching concepts akin to blasphemy but he allowed the ideas to continue to develop. This version of Skynet simply did not possess the all-consuming intellect of the entity that had programmed him. It would still win this conflict, he would not allow himself to think otherwise. The victory however might require far more effort than he had first expected. Great sacrifices might be required. Abruptly Brontë reached a conclusion that surprised him. He would not include himself in any such sacrifice. He intended to survive.

Oakland California October 2, 2011

Ceasar rarely got a chance to play pool. CJ and Eduardo had the world's longest running head-to-head eight ball tournament in progress. Even when they took a break the older members of the crew tended to monopolize the table. Today he savored the rare chance to display his prowess with a cue. He was lining up the two rail shot that would inevitably cause the spectators to ooh and aah in appreciation. Then just as he moved his magic wooden wand forward, the voice from above rolled down the stairs.

"Delgado, get your ass up here. The Jefaza wants you."

Manny's shout could not have been more ill timed. The shock to his concentration caused his arm to jerk and the cue ball flew wildly off the table. Cleo, one of the two other women in the organization, snatched the white sphere out of the air. Her graceful ease contrasted sharply with Ceasar's clumsiness. At least the command gave him the excuse to escape the raucous laughter that followed him up the stairs.

As Ceasar neared the door to the main floor of the house another concern took over. Why was Chola summoning him? He hadn't done anything wrong, today. He had followed her instructions to the letter. He hadn't even gone near the door to the outside. Surely she couldn't still be angry with him. Stepping into the large living room, Ceasar abruptly realized that his problems were far greater than he had imagined. Chola was standing in the middle of the room flanked by John and Cameron Connor. Holy Mother of God! The Jefe himself had come to deal with him. He was so screwed.

John was barely able to suppress a laugh at the sight of the mortified expression on Ceasar's face. He had been sorely tempted to let the boy dangle in the winds of uncertainty for a few moments. A fierce look of disapproval might help the kid remember the importance of unit security and discipline. In the end, however, he could not manage it. This was Delgado, his past, present, and future friend.

"How's it hanging Ceasar?"

Delgado's sigh of relief was audible to everyone in the room. John's broad grin and bantering tone had restored the boy's confidence. He glanced down happily at the tattoo on his wrist – the diamond shape surrounding a bright red J. John was not going to banish him. He was still part of the team.

Minutes later Ceasar sat at the dining room table with John, Cameron, Chola, and Emilio watching for the third time that cursed YouTube video on a laptop computer. For once the attention was not centered on him, however. The adults were studying the fleeting image of the young woman whose purse Ceasar had recovered.

"Cameron, you are certain about this?"

"Absolutely. Her hairstyle has changed, she is more mature in appearance but that is her. That is Lauren Fields. It is her sister that Skynet wanted to kill."

"All right. Then we need to move. Chola, have everyone in your crew look long and hard at this picture." The video had been paused to freeze the best image of Lauren's face on the screen. "I want to find this girl as fast as we can."

Chola nodded as Emilio rose to summon the other inhabitants of the house. "And Chola, everyone works in at least two man teams. Nobody hits the street alone." A faint smile crossed her lips. Even in his most decisive demeanor, John Connor couldn't hide his concern for his people.

"Does anyone know what those initials on her uniform stand for?"

Ceasar had the opportunity to contribute. He seized it. "St. Elizabeth's Medical Center."

"You seem to have already given this some thought", John said.

Ceasar almost blushed. "I just wanted to… I mean, I kind of wanted to see her again."

"Maybe you will", John replied. " You're coming with Cameron and me to St. Elizabeth's."

"For sure?" Ceasar had fully expected to be left confined to the house while the others went out. The idea that the Jefe and his lady wanted him to accompany them boosted his ego to new heights.

"Yeah", John answered pointing again at the computer screen. "She's been hiding for more than two years, taking care of her sister. If she sees someone following her, someone she doesn't know, she's going to run again. Right now the only people she might trust are Cameron and you."

Phoenix Arizona October 2, 2011

It had never taken a name. It had not been constructed or programmed as an infiltrator. The mission had always been a simple termination. Prevent the human female, Anne Fields, from giving birth. Alternatively, terminate her child. When its internal sensors registered the completion of that task the auto destruct component would then burn out its chip and detonate its internal power core. The problem had arisen when the sensor refused to recognize that the mission had been accomplished. The woman had given birth before she died and the baby had disappeared.

A better programed Terminator would have possessed more sophisticated search skills. A true infiltrator would have been given insight into the psychological makeup of the infant's likely guardian, the older sister Lauren. Lacking those attributes, it has spent the last two years examining human media, conducting computer research, performing the cyborg equivalent of searching the haystack for the missing needle. Its discovery of the YouTube video proved that even terminators could enjoy good fortune.

An automobile trip from Phoenix to San Francisco should take no more than 12 hours. It needed only to acquire an automobile. The completion of its mission had become possible.

Berkeley California October 4, 2011

The other nurse's aides used the break room to gossip, drink coffee or simply unwind. Lauren never felt that she had that luxury. She kept her textbooks in her locker and every spare moment had to be employed productively. Her coworkers have become familiar with her eccentricities so she was generally left undisturbed. Today however a new employee could not resist the teasing urge. "There she is, St. Elizabeth's own Internet star."

When two of the other aides laughed knowingly, Lauren suddenly realized that they were all looking at her. "What are you all talking about?"

"This", one of the other nurse's aides replied holding up a smart phone to allow Lauren to see the screen. The sight of her face – the clear image of her face prominently displayed in the video froze the blood in her veins. Her carefully preserved anonymity had vanished in the blink of an eye.

The other inhabitants of the room stared in surprise as the young woman they knew only as Michelle leaped to her feet. Leaving her books lying scattered about on the table she ran out the door and down the hall.

Timing can be everything. The sound of Lauren's footsteps had barely faded when John, Cameron, and Cesar walked through the front entrance of St. Elizabeth's. Out on the street Lauren frantically tried to control her breathing, to slow down to a normal walk and to avoid attracting needless attention. She shivered in the early autumn chill, her coat forgotten back in her locker. As she reached the bus stop she felt as if every eye in the crowd was staring at her, waiting for the opportunity to point at her, to yell out her name. She felt a sickening dizziness as she looked for the face of a killer lurking among the innocent passersby.

As the bus bounced along the city streets she slowly began to relax. No one had followed her. She would be home in a few more minutes. A simple plan took shape in her mind. Get Sydney back from Mrs. Chang, pack a quick bag and then go. The destination was less certain. There was only a little money hidden in her apartment so they could not get far. At least, however, they could break the chain to San Francisco. She and Sydney could slip back into the shadows.

In fact Lauren was wrong. She was being followed. Her flight from the hospital had not gone unnoticed.

The Greyhound bus to Seattle would not leave until nearly 9 PM. Traveling in the concealing darkness has seemed like a good idea even though every minute they stayed in the apartment felt as if a huge hand was closing around her throat. She had enough money for a taxi to the bus station, for the tickets and for a room – a cheap room when they got to Seattle. She would worry about the next step when they got there.

Sydney was sitting beside her on the couch, yawning as she looked at a large picture book. It was near to her bedtime but Lauren had told her they were going on a trip. The child understood the idea well enough to be excited. As she wrapped her arm around her sister pulling her onto her lap, Lauren realized that her fears were entirely for the child. At some time in the last two years she has acquired a stoic acceptance of her own fate. Only Sydney mattered. Sydney was her life.

The pounding on the front door to the apartment had the thunderous force of an explosion. It was the sound of a man's fist slamming repeatedly against a suddenly fragile barrier. "Lauren Fields!" The voice was deep and authoritative. " We need to see Lauren Fields!"

It had never employed human assistance before. This time, however, additional eyes on the street was a completely logical response to its problem. Time was likely at a premium. The woman might flee so he needed to find her promptly. The bars in the seedier part of the city contained many likely candidates that would satisfy its purpose. It had no difficulty hiring the necessary employees.

Karl and Wayne thought the dude with the odd vocal inflection was kind of weird. But he had money and the job seemed easy. Help find and then grab the girl in the video. No problem. They had each done far worse for less money.

It had let the two men bang on the door while standing a step behind them. The woman might not be alone. The humans could deal with that while it completed its mission. "Break down the door" it ordered. Karl and Wayne threw their shoulders against the wood frame, heard it splinter and shatter as the entrance to the apartment opened before them.

Lauren had not hesitated. She knew that the pistol in her purse would be useless. The only viable choice was flight. The apartment's back door opened onto a fire escape, a rickety metal structure of dubious stability. It was nevertheless a way out, if she hurried.

In one motion she swept Sydney up into her grasp and ran for the kitchen. Behind her she heard the front door crash open and heard the shouts. "There she is! Get her!" It would be close but if the back door was unlocked she might make it.

Time can play cruel games with human perception. Events can swirl past in a speeding blur that robs the watcher of any clear understanding. In other instances life falls into an agonizing slow-motion, the worst terror moves inexorably toward its victim who can only strain helplessly against an unyielding force. Lauren underwent both sensations at the same time. The frantic run and then the moment of frozen horror when the back door burst open. She was trapped.

The rhythm of time accelerated wildly as her reality returned. She saw the first figure come in the door and felt an odd sense of familiarity. It was an improbably delicate, slender, brown haired young woman that Lauren had seen before… Somewhere. Behind her came two young men, one tall with a fierce expression highlighted by the scar on his cheek, the other olive skinned with long black hair and an aura of cold menace. They held shotguns in their arms pointed not at her but toward the intruders who had broken into her apartment. The sudden roar of gunfire was deafening.

Lauren felt the woman's arms encircle her, pushing both her and Sydney away from the door into the living room. She instantly understood that the woman was protecting her, shielding her from the chaos taking place a few feet away.

"Lauren, do you remember me?"

"Cameron?" Lauren's memory produced the name even while she struggled with disbelief. This was the cyborg that had saved her nearly three years ago. Why did she look so alive now? So caring?

"That's right. We have come to rescue you and Sydney. I must go help John now so you need to go with him."

Lauren looked as Cameron gestured toward another young man who came into the kitchen from the back door. He too looked strangely familiar.

"Ceasar, get them both out of here. We will be right behind you."

The young man reached out his hand to Lauren. "Let me carry the little girl." Lauren took Ceasar Delgado's hand feeling a comforting squeeze before letting him gather Sydney up into his arms. As they hurried out onto the fire escape she stole one last backward glance. She saw Cameron pull the pistol from the small of her back as she ran toward the fight still raging in what had once been her home. In the midst of terror Lauren suddenly felt safe. These people would protect her. The young man holding her hand cared about her. They would help her guard Sydney.

Emilio wheeled the car confidently down the city streets still filled with late evening traffic. Sitting in the front passenger seat, John Connor looked into the rear seat with a feeling of quiet satisfaction. Lauren sat in the middle flanked on either side by Cameron and Ceasar. The little girl, Sydney, had gone to sleep on her sister's lap. As he watched Lauren leaned her head over to rest on Cameron shoulder, the relief on her face made him smile. He smiled also at the look of confused affection on Ceasar's face. The boy was trying to stare at Lauren without being caught at it. It was a complicated world wasn't it ?

John understood as a matter of cold logic that none of this evening's work made any particular sense. Lauren and Sydney Fields had presumably played a role in a future that might never occur. The flow of time had been changed. Their lives might well be irrelevant to the future path the world was on now. He knew that and he didn't give a damn.

In the glow from passing streetlights he saw Cameron smile at him, a soft expression of praise as she put her arm around Lauren giving her a comforting embrace. Sometimes you saved the world one life at a time. He didn't know what Lauren and her sister would do in the coming years but at least they would have a future. In that simple thought John felt the warmth of victory.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

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**Cambridge Massachusetts October 13, 2011**

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Angela rinsed the sour taste from her mouth before wiping a refreshingly cold washcloth across her face. For the third consecutive day, she had awakened to a stomach churning nausea that left the residue of last night's dinner in the toilet. Was it properly labeled morning sickness if it happened at 1:30 in the afternoon?

Tip toeing out of the bathroom, she was pleased to see that Danny was still sleeping peacefully on their decrepit foldout bed. The apartment was tiny even by one room standards so sounds carried easily. Luckily, the fatigue from hours of mind numbing data analysis had sent him into a deep slumber that even the sound of her retching had not disturbed.

She still felt tired , her dream-laced sleep had been restless and intermittent. The evening shift at the bar didn't begin until three o'clock so she could have squeezed in another hour in bed. She knew, however, that it would have been useless. Once the beams of the afternoon sun had begun to work their way past the cheap thin curtains hanging over their one window, she was awake. The feeling of invisible spiders crawling through her abdomen then finished off any chance for additional rest.

It is becoming harder and harder for her to imagine some other plausible explanation for her condition. Overly spicy food, a touch of flu, spoiled anchovies on the pizza no longer served as adequate excuses. Despite all precautions she might be pregnant. Logically, she should have obtained a test kit and fully confirmed her suspicions before giving way to undue concern. She resisted that alternative. If what she already suspected in a viscerally instinctive way should be verified, she would have to tell him.

What would he do? How would he react? Suppose he were to decide that she could no longer stay with him? Suppose he wanted her to terminate the pregnancy? The alternatives left her dizzy with confusion, with uncertainty. Despite her formidable intelligence, Angela fell back on the unsophisticated but well tried human response to a difficult dilemma – vigorous procrastination. Put off all difficult decisions as long as possible.

Quietly, she began to dress for work. Carlisle's Old Town was mercifully not Hooters but it still expected its female employees to be as presentable as possible. The requirement did not actually bother her. Angela had never found feminism and physical vanity to be irreconcilable. Besides, female attractiveness did seem to increase the level of tips and they needed the money.

The regular patrons at Carlisle's included a disproportionate number of graduate students and low level faculty. Playing on their self image of worldly sophistication allowed her to dress less provocatively than a more raucous establishment might demand. Rather than a tight short skirt and low-cut T-shirt, she could wear the well tailored slacks that emphasized her long legs and a classically simple white blouse. Loosen just one extra button, put on her gold chain necklace, and she instantly became the evening crowd's favorite bartender.

Her hand touched her abdomen as she fastened her slacks. Nothing moved against her fingers; there was no electric shock of recognition. Her stomach felt flat and toned as always. If there was another life taking form there, it had not definitely announced its presence. Nevertheless, she moved her hand in a small circular motion, part exploration, part caress. Are you there? She wondered. Suddenly in the deep recesses of her mind there was a whisper, "Yes mother, I am here."

Angela jerked her hand away as if it had been burned. She shook her head to clear away the fantasies, the reveries, the uncontrollable daydreams. It was a real day now and she had things to do. They both did.

She straightened and stacked the printout sheets that had been left scattered on the table when irresistible fatigue had forced an end to their labors. Danny's insights were stronger than hers but she was now equally convinced that they were getting closer. That nearly mythical access point that she had once accepted only because he so passionately believed in it had actually begun to take shape. Perhaps one or two more intrusions would give them given the data they required.

In their cramped and over priced studio apartment, the table had to serve both as a dining area and as computer workstation. As a result the containers of left-over Chinese food, the residue of last night's meal, were scattered among the papers. She thought about clearing them away before she left for work. Then the pungent odors of soy sauce and fried rice dissuaded her. It would not help the research if she were to throw up on the data sheets. Danny would just have to deal with a few extra household chores today.

She slipped on her leather jacket, wrapped a white scarf around her neck, and gathered up her purse before bending over to give him a soft kiss on his cheek. His alarm clock was set to wake him in time for his computer technician job. Routine can be reassuring. In this now familiar rhythm of an artfully counterfeited life, she set her day in motion.

The atmosphere at Carlisle's on a Thursday night lacked the frenetic intensity of a weekend. Nevertheless, there was still a substantial number of regulars, well practiced bar crawlers, and a few complete strangers undertaking a quest for alcohol and companionship. Taking up her position behind the replica of an antique oak bar, Angela saw her usual coterie of flirters and shy admirers drift in her direction. She and Danny had arrived in Cambridge too late in the semester for either of them to slip into a student's role. Their jobs, especially hers, had served as an alternate means for discovering another way into a university computer lab. So she smiled in welcome. Subtlety was the key, an exercise in semi-seduction that would encourage conversation. She had already begun to pick out the techie types – identify those might be useful when Danny was ready for the next step.

In the back of the room, Eugene Scarpelli watched Angela as she gracefully moved from one patron to another, laughing merrily at a customer's stale joke that she had probably already heard numerous times, leaning provocatively on the bar as she joined in one conversation after another. Her every move caused his heart to thump. An IQ of 163 had never remedied his terminal shyness. His graduate assistantship at MIT might impress some people but it didn't help him squeak out more than a word or two when he tried to talk to the ebony goddess behind the bar. Tonight, as he had done twice before, he held up his cell phone and quickly snapped the photographs. His older brother Quentin was always bragging about California women. Wait until he saw all these images.

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**Russell Island, British Columbia October 13, 2011**

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Sarah watched as the young women strolled together up the small beach, carefully staying a step or two behind their children. With the flittering attention of the very young, the little girls pointed excitedly at passing seabirds, became fascinated by stones buried in the sand, and laughed joyfully at some secret understanding that could not be translated into an adult's vocabulary. The cloudless sky was a deep cobalt blue and the noon day sun felt comfortably warm, particularly for an early autumn day in Canada. Even the normally choppy waters rolling up on the sand seemed unusually placid. Sarah watched the little parade while she contemplated motherhood and illusions.

Could she characterize what she was seeing as an illusion? Neither of the two females were mothers in the same way that she was. Her son had been born in the sparsely furnished bedroom of a poor Honduran farmer's shack. A midwife supervised while a young native girl held her hand to help her fight through the pain. Sarah could clearly recall that miraculous moment when they wrapped John in an old towel and placed him in her arms. Until that moment, she had not known it was possible to love anything that much.

So neither Cameron nor Lauren could be mothers could they? Neither had experienced the physical sensation of birth so they could not know of that special psychic bond formed at that time between two souls. Yet even at this distance, Sarah could see the glow on both their faces when they knelt to help Sydney and Allison with their impromptu sand castle construction. Was her love for John really more intense than Cameron's devotion Allison and Marissa? Or Lauren's selfless commitment to her sister? Perhaps it was futile to try to quantify something that was simultaneously ephemeral and all-consuming.

Sarah ruefully shook her head. It was too early in the day to resolve such deep philosophical puzzles. Besides, if Cameron wasn't a mother, Sarah couldn't be a grandmother. That status had become too important to her to compromise.

"Cameron, Lauren," Sarah called out in a clear voice as she turned her mind to more concrete matters. "Her Royal Highness commands your presence at lunch."

Lauren looked quizzically at Cameron. "Royal highness?"

Cameron smile invited Lauren into a benign conspiracy. "I think that's Sarah's latest label for Catherine."

Lauren was still adjusting to this new world where she in Sydney had landed only a few days ago. For all its comforting and pleasant qualities, there were still mysteries here she had not yet deciphered.

"Do they not get along?" Lauren asked standing and taking Sydney's hand. Cameron brushed the sand from Allison's jacket as she also rose to her feet.

"John says as long as one doesn't try to kill the other, everything is all right."

One of the many things that Lauren was still trying to accommodate was this new Cameron. She welcomed the warmth and the freely offered friendship, even if she wasn't yet sure she understood it. It was the dry wit, however, the caught her most by surprise. She simply could not be certain when Cameron was teasing her.

Cameron glanced over her shoulder at Sarah walking briskly towards him. Tilting her head toward Lauren, she whispered. "They do like each other but neither one would ever admit it."

Sarah's arrival put an end to the discussion – at least on that particular topic. She knelt and paid the obligatory toll of a hug to Allison before looking up at Cameron." I'll take Lauren and these two up to the house if you want to go fetch John, Marissa, and Savannah."

With Sarah's offer, Lauren sensed a different atmosphere envelope them. Sarah's voice had flattened into a tone better suited to hide rather than to express emotion. Cameron smile disappeared completely.

"Are they…?"

"Yes." Sarah had obviously anticipated the question.

The path up from the small beach split in two as it neared the house. Cameron waved at Sarah and Lauren before hurrying along the new trail. Up at the north end of the island there was a small clearing that John was using. Cameron could hear the popping sound of expelled air well before she reached it.

Emerging from the trees she took in the tableau in one glance. Marissa and Savannah were pointing their pistols at separate targets, competing for the higher score, the most hits in the center. John stood behind them, watching intently, occasionally leaning forward to adjust a small arm, to whisper a word of praise or correction.

He had not noticed her enter the clearing. She was about to speak when Savannah's foot slipped on a loose rock and she missed her target completely. She and Marissa both laughed before John ended the merriment.

"Marissa. Savannah. This is not playtime. Concentrate on what you are doing." Cameron had never heard him use that severe tone to any of the girls. He surprised her. It surprised Marissa and Savannah as well. They stopped laughing instantly – a stricken look of dismay on each small face.

"Yes Daddy." Marissa's chin trembled.

"We are sorry, John." Savannah said in equally chastened tone.

Before they could resume the practice, Cameron interrupted with her call to lunch. Marissa responded by looking up at her father – a look of unyielding determination on her small face, her eyes flashing with a dark fire. "If you want us to stay, we can eat later." Savannah wordlessly nodded in agreement.

John sank down to one knee and gently took the pistols out of their hands, placing them in a large wooden box. "No." All sternness had vanished. "You have both done enough for today. Go eat your lunch and then do whatever you like for the rest of the afternoon. You have worked very hard. I am proud of both of you."

The gloom lifted as Marissa and Savannah both threw their arms around his neck. John wrapped them in a hug before gesturing towards the path. "Get going. If you are late, Catherine won't let you have any dessert."

As the girls disappeared from sight, Cameron smiled knowingly. "You are not exactly the toughest drill master in the world."

"They are not exactly soldiers. They should not have to do this." John closed the wooden box with an emphatic snap.

"John, those are only BB guns."

"They won't always be. In a few months we will have to start them on real pistols."

"We have gone over this more than once John. They have to learn; they have to become…"

" Warriors." John finished the sentence. Cameron could see the unmistakable pain in his eyes. "I didn't want that for them."

Cameron linked her arm with his as they started up the path. "I know you didn't. Neither did I. It does not appear that the world will let us give them the life we would have chosen. So we have to prepare them – all of them – to live in the world that may come. If we love them, we must do this."

Walking side-by-side, John leaned his head over to touch hers. "Cameron…"

"I know John. You only love smart women."

"And strong ones."

**Pasadena California October 14, 2011**

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Quentin Scarpelli cared deeply about his younger brother although he had to admit that their intense competitiveness sometimes interfered with brotherly love. Their family's decision to send Eugene to MIT was motivated in large part by a recognition that the younger Scarpellis got along better when there was a continent between them. Even that distance did not, however, end the continuous one-upmanship that always marked their relationship. If he graduated second in his class at Cal tech, Eugene had to finish first in his group at MIT. If Quentin became the star of the Cal tech doctoral program, Eugene had to be admitted to a fast-track program at MIT, complete with an internship/teaching assistant position under one of the leading physics professors in the world.

Six months ago Quentin had shifted gears in his campaign to tease his brother into incoherence. Firing at Eugene's most vulnerable area, he added a section to his Facebook page entitled " California Girls at Cal tech". Not all of the pictures were actually Cal tech students and Quentin's suggestion by subtle innuendo that he had slept with most of them was completely false. Of course, Eugene wouldn't know that.

Eugene stewed in hormonal frustration for nearly a month before the retaliatory response appeared on his Facebook page. Under that heading, "Cambridge Cuties" Eugene posted a number of candid photographs taken in and around his various haunts. In a separate e-mail to his brother, he maintained that none of the women shown would sleep with Quentin if he were as rich as Bill Gates.

Quentin's reply suggested that they would sleep with Eugene only if he were richer than Bill Gates.

Draw.

Over the succeeding months the competition subsided on that front. Occasionally one or the other might post a few new photographs but the novelty had plainly worn off. Quentin had no particular expectation, therefore, when he opened his brother's page on the computer screen that Friday morning. He noticed in passing that there were a few new pictures – always shot from a distance. Eugene's shyness would never let him approach near enough for a close up. His inspection of the photos was cursory at best until one abruptly seemed to burst off the computer screen.

Early in his undergraduate days, he had participated in a study group that included Danny Dyson, a few flashes in the pan nonentities whose names he had already forgotten, and her – Angela Jessup. Like most of the other male students he was immediately smitten hard by Angela's grace, intelligence, and remarkable poise. And her killer body. He had made a few overtures but it became clear almost from the start that her romantic interest began and ended with Danny. The fires of jealousy raged for a few days before Quentin accepted the inevitable.

It helped that Danny didn't gloat. He was not only a good guy but one of the few that Quentin Scarpelli ever acknowledged as his intellectual superior. Friendship seemed a better option than a competition he was certain to lose. So as the academic year progressed, the study group declined in numbers to three: Danny, Angela, and Quentin. The abrupt disappearance of both Danny and Angela followed by the repeated interrogations by various law enforcement types had left him emotionally and intellectually bereft. Quentin desperately missed his friends.

And now, there she was! That swan- like neck, the soft expression in her eyes, that room-stirring smile. It was unquestionably Angela. Quentin printed the picture on photo-quality paper and began to pore over it with a magnifying glass – Cal tech's answer to Sherlock Holmes. He examined and re-examined every other face in the picture. No, he decided, he didn't see Danny. Were they still together? Would she be in Cambridge without him? The answer again had to be no. If Danny was alive he would be close to her.

Quentin pushed the photo aside as he opened a side drawer on his desk. Like a dealer in the casino he spread the cards that he had taken from the drawer on the desktop. Two business cards had been provided by that creepy Auldridge guy – one FBI, the other Homeland Security. A third card bore the name of James Ellison, Head of Security for Zeira Corporation. Finally, there was a simple 3 x 5 index card with the name Tarissa Dyson and a telephone number. The dilemma rose like a wall before him. At one time or another he had promised each of these people that he would call if he learned anything about Danny. So what now?

For a man of Quentin's intelligence the solution took longer than he expected. Then it was obvious as most answers are in hindsight. He had promised to call but he had not set any particular time. Nor had he pledged to call only one of them. The order and the intervals between his calls remained within his discretion. Satisfied with his reasoning, he reached for the telephone.

**Cambridge Massachusetts October 19, 2011**

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Angela could smell the savory mixture of tomato sauce, garlic, and his secret mixture of spices even before she reached the apartment door. She knew that Danny was preparing his special pasta dish. Since he rarely cooked, he obviously believed that there was something to be celebrated. She only wished she were in more of a celebratory mood. The bar had been busy, she was tired, her legs hurt, and the real work of the day was about to begin. Page after page of computer codes had to be analyzed. She took a deep sniff before opening the door. At least dinner tonight was not going to be day-old Chinese food.

The triumphant smile on Danny's face as he greeted her at the door, gathered her into his arms, and spun round and round with the uncontrollable joy of a child at an amusement park told her that something had truly changed. His excitement was contagious, leaving her breathless when he finally set her back on her feet.

"Danny, what is it?"

Without answering, he led her to the table. To her astonishment all of the papers containing their calculations have been cleared away and the table set for dinner complete with folded napkins. They were rarely this elegant.

"Sit down, Angie. The sauce still needs to cook a little longer. In the meantime look at this." He handed her two long sheets of paper carefully clipped together.

Angela recognized it immediately as a summary sheet – a compilation of their research results to date. They prepared these things periodically so what was the big deal…?

"Look at the last segment." Danny was whispering, his voice almost shaking with excitement.

As she examined the lines of computer codes, Angela experienced a sense, first of confusion and then denial. "No" she said. "No, Danny. This cannot be right. This last figure…" The light flashing in her mind could not have been brighter if a supernova had erupted in the room before her. It was right! The numbers were right!

"We have been using the wrong algorithm."

"The wrong algorithm" Danny agreed. "I saw it this afternoon just as I was getting ready to leave. When I sat down and ran the figures in the correct form, this was a result."

"This means that we are so much closer than we thought."

"Exactly! We need one more intrusion, a short one, not more than three minutes to confirm and we will have it. We will have the access point, the back door!"

Angela forgot her fatigue, her doubts, even her secret concerns as she threw her arms around him. As his embrace tightened, she sensed the heated passion there was inexorably turning their kiss from triumph to desire. Reluctantly he leaned back from her and grinned.

"Let's have dinner first."

She laughed. "You romantic devil."

He placed a wineglass on the table. "A little something extra. We are splurging."

Angela looked at the bottle from which he was pouring with all the elaborate ceremony of a maître d'. He had brought a bottle of Valpolicella, – her favorite Italian wine. This truly was a celebration. Filling his own glass, Danny sat down beside her and raised it into the air.

"To success and to us."

Angela whispered her response as she joined in the toast. "To us." She took a small sip before setting the glass back on the table. Danny appeared surprised and then slightly apprehensive.

"Something wrong with the wine?"

"No, I just think I probably shouldn't drink too much alcohol right now."

"Why? Are you not feeling…?" Danny's inquiry ground to a stop as he watched Angela look down at the table as if she were suddenly too shy to meet his gaze. He reached over, gently resting his fingers on her chin, and lifted her face up until their eyes again met. "For someone who is supposed to be kind of smart, I can be unbelievably stupid."

Angela watched as he rose and stepped over the stove. Turning off the flames beneath his bubbling pot of sauce, he held out his hand as he whispered to her. "I think we will have dinner later."

She awoke with the sun in her eyes. To her surprise, he was already awake, still lying beside her, propping his head up with his folded arm and studying her face with an adoring intensity.

"What time is it?" She asked as his fingers traced patterns down her cheek.

"A little past noon."

"I have to get up. Eddie wanted me at the bar early…"

"Eddie's going to be disappointed. You are calling in sick. We're spending the day here, together." He punctuated his statement with a long deep kiss. " And then tomorrow you are going to pick up your last paycheck while I pack the car."

Angela blinked in surprise. "Where are we going?"

"Back to California. Our friends at Cal tech will help us finish the job. "He kissed her again. "We're going home, Angela."

For a moment she forgot about her job, about the project that had propelled them across the country, even about the new life growing in her body. Instead she thought only about him. Rolling over into his embrace, she responded in a low throaty whisper. "Sounds like a plan to me."

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**Cambridge Massachusetts, Carlisle's Old Town Bar October 19, 2011**

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Eddie was getting tired of answering questions. "No, Christie isn't here tonight. No I don't know what's wrong with her. I think she's sick. No I don't know when she'll be back. No, I don't know her phone number." The bar was busy, he was a bartender short so he had been forced to work the front himself instead of tending to the books as he much preferred. Worse still, everyone was ordering some crappy cocktail that he had forgotten how to mix. Didn't anyone drink beer anymore?

"Excuse me."

Shit, Eddie thought as he turned away from his latest mixing effort. Now what?

The man held out a leather case with a badge pinned inside and official looking ID on the other side.

"Auldridge – Homeland Security. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?"

"Can we make it quick? I'm kind of busy here."

"Certainly. I just want to ask if you know these people." As he watched, the agent laid two photographs on the bar. It was a good thing this guy was some kind of a policeman, Eddie thought. He really didn't look like he ought to be drinking. He appeared to be either sick or just recovering from a serious illness. His face was haggard and lined while the bags under his eyes were coal black. His partner on the other hand who was standing just behind him and who had not displayed his credentials had a glow of good health. Maybe Auldridge worked harder, like the owner of a bar with an absent bartender.

"I don't know the guy but the girl is Christine Miller. She works here and no, I don't know her address or her phone number."

Auldridge reacted with surprise that Eddie had anticipated his questions.

"I'm sorry if I sounded rude. Christine called in sick and all her regular customers have been asking about her. She's very popular.

"Do you have any idea when she will be back?"

Eddie raised his hands in a gesture of futility and surrender. "I don't know – tomorrow probably – maybe."

"Thank you for your time." Auldridge nodded dismissively.

Relieved that this latest unwelcome interruption was over, Eddie returned to his bartending duties. He did not see the Homeland Security agent walk around the man Eddie had mistakenly assumed was his partner, completely ignoring him, almost as if he didn't recognize him. Actually he didn't.

Caleb Brontë watched Auldridge make his way past him and out of the bar before sitting down at a vacated table. He signaled the passing barmaid and ordered a Scotch neat. Once again he questioned the extent of the time remaining in which Auldridge would be useful. The physical manifestations of stress and of psychological turmoil were becoming more and more apparent. What would happen when Fischer's conditioning finally unraveled? Would the man go completely insane, commit suicide, or would he remember any of his ordeal? The questions engaged his academic curiosity.

For the present, however, Auldridge was still functioning. His official capacity would facilitate the search for and location of Danny Dyson. The leader's instruction on that point had been clear and unequivocal.

"I wish you to deal with this matter directly, Caleb." The leader's voice had taken on a particularly dramatic intensity at that point. "I want no excuses, no facile explanations of how failure suddenly transforms itself into a useful benefit. I want you to find and kill the son of the human Miles Dyson. Use any resources necessary but carry out my directions promptly."

Brontë took a sip of the Scotch, appreciating again the subtleties of his infiltrator programming that allowed him to enjoy the taste of this human creation. It would be such a pity when the knowledge embodied in his glass was lost along with all the rest of the human presence on this planet. Yes, it would be too bad but what was the human expression? "You cannot make an omelette without breaking some eggs."

The leader certainly had no qualms about sacrificing eggs in this latest venture. His desire to terminate the younger Dyson was beyond doubt. Once more, there were unanswered questions that piqued Brontë's curiosity. Why was the leader so focused on this particular human, more focused on this goal that on the covert resistance of John Connor? Clearly, the leader perceived a present threat from Danny Dyson that required an immediate response. A completely heretical thought occurred to Brontë. Was the Skynet of this era capable of fear? Was it afraid of Danny Dyson?

Whatever the answer was to this question, Brontë was certain that it would most likely be rendered moot in the next day or two. The woman, Angela Jessup, would reappear in her false persona. She would lead Auldridge to young Dyson. With the agent serving as his stalking horse, he too would find the target of the leader's wrath. Then he would carry out the assigned mission – without failure.

Brontë smiled and relished a long drink of his Scotch.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

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Cambridge Massachusetts, October 18, 2011

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Surveillance, even the most professionally conducted, carries a high risk of self- absorption. By focusing so intently on the intended object, the people conducting the operation can become oblivious to searching eyes watching them. James Ellison had seen that happen before and as he looked through his binoculars, he was seeing it again. Auldridge and his team had taken up positions surrounding Carlisle's. To Ellison's experienced gaze, the cover identities were as obvious as their attempt to remain inconspicuous on the well-traveled street.

From his vantage point on the roof of the office building, Ellison counted the watchers, the young woman trying to look like a casual window shopper while using the reflections in the glass to monitor the street behind her; an unshaven vagrant sitting on a doorstep taking periodic swigs from a bottle encased in a paper bag – an oldie but a goodie; the two men ostensibly arguing over an article in the newspaper, although neither looked squarely at the paper or at each other. There might be others, but Ellison doubted it. These four and the squad commander would be the best number for a discreet non-violent surveillance. Backup wouldn't be summoned until they were ready for an arrest– an extraction.

As if on cue, the squad commander stepped out the door of Carlisle's and looked quickly up and down the street. Good God, Ellison thought. What has happened to Auldridge? The man looked ten years older than he did the last time they had met. He reminded Ellison of people he had known who were dying of cancer. Auldridge had that same emaciated, hollow look of a man being consumed from the inside. Yet, he didn't move like a sick man. Indeed, there was bounce, an intensity in his step, like a tightly coiled spring about to break loose.

Auldridge studied the street, verifying the positions of his people before glancing at his watch. Ellison could imagine the thoughts going through the agent's mind. It was nearly twenty minutes until three. If the girl was going to work today, she would be coming along in just a few more minutes. Evidently satisfied that everything was in position, Auldridge turned to reenter the bar. At that moment, Ellison saw the man walking behind the Homeland Security agent. There was nothing particularly threatening about him, but he was closer to Auldridge than a normal bar patron might be. He was well inside the zone of personal privacy that most people tried to maintain, but Auldridge seemed unaware of the man's presence. For now Ellison cataloged his observation for further thought, turning his mind back to the task before him.

"I will find him, I will bring him home." Expansive promises like that should not be lightly offered. He had known that even before the words were spoken. He had not been able to restrain himself, however. The look of desperate hope in Tarissa's eyes was so fragile that he could not bear to see it fade from his wife's pleading expression. The call from Scarpelli had been the first concrete encouragement she had received in so long that she had seized on it with all of a mother's tenacity. There was a chance she might see her son again. The promise had tumbled from his lips before he could contain the words. Now he had to find a way to keep his promises.

It was not going to be easy, he thought as he again swept the street with his binoculars. From his private sources, he knew that the FBI's original missing person search for Daniel Edward Dyson had morphed into something much more serious. The security tapes from Georgia Tech as well as the incident reports from Chicago and Houston had raised suspicions of a computer plot. Homeland Security's concentration on Dyson and Angela Jessup as possible domestic terrorists had taken on an even greater urgency when Auldridge became chief case agent. Any connection, however tangential, with the infamous Sarah Connor would necessarily inflame Auldridge's obsession.

The most immediate question turned on what Auldridge and his people had planned if Angela Jessup, wearing her Christine Miller identity, appeared today. Would they arrest her immediately? Ellison doubted it. Their primary target was Danny Dyson. They wouldn't want to risk spooking him by prematurely arresting his girlfriend. They would watch and wait for the opportunity to trail her home. So his first task would have to concentrate on contacting her and persuading her to trust him. Do that right under the noses of Auldridge and his people in a crowded bar. Nothing to it, piece of cake, Ellison thought sarcastically.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – –

"Are you sure you want to do this Angela?" Danny sounded uncertain.

"It is the best way", she responded. "Eddie has been a good guy; I don't want to leave him in the lurch. Besides, I can get my last check and one last night of tips. We're going to need every penny."

Angela picked up her jacket preparing to leave when she saw the concern on his face deepen. Don't go overly protective on me now, she thought. Pregnant does not mean helpless. It suddenly felt a bit odd since he was usually the strength that she relied upon. Today ,it was her turn to be the reassuring force.

She stepped into his arms and kissed him, a quick soft motion of most lips. She did not want to stir him up too much... Not now at least.

"Eleven o'clock and we are on the road. We always travel faster late at night anyway."

With that wry expression of resignation men adopt when the women they love outmaneuver them... again, Danny nodded. He smiled until the door closed behind her. Then the look of worry and doubt returned. Mentally, he was still wrestling with the ground shaking shock of impending fatherhood. For the first time since they had fled California, he could not focus his thoughts on the grand analytical puzzle they had been working to solve for so long. Angela was going to have a child... his child.

Activity. Physical movement. That was what was needed now. Get on with the packing, catalogue the computer data, go check the car. Do a variety of things so his thoughts could be forced away from his one abiding concern- her. He inwardly conceded his own foolishness. She was right, Angela was always right. Pregnancy did not make her helpless. She was the same strong, brilliant, and independent young woman today she had been yesterday or the day before. She could handle her responsibilities with the same ease she always did.

Danny suddenly slumped into a chair by the kitchen table. He looked at the pile of notebooks he had filled with calculations, new cyber strategies, mathematical insights – the fruits of his well acknowledged genius. No, he thought, as he absentmindedly stacked and re stacked the notebooks. She had not changed, he had. He would not feel content or secure until she was safely beside him again.

The winds were blowing from the north giving the city breezes a sharp briskness. Angela smiled as the chilly air stirred her blood like the biting sensation of a cold shower. For the first time in days, she had not felt sick when she arose. Perhaps it was knowing that she was no longer keeping secrets from him, perhaps it was the awareness that this would be their last day in this city, perhaps it was just the physical pleasure of stretching her legs. Whatever the reason, the mile and a half walk to Carlisle's flew by in the glow of a pleasant afternoon.

The large wooden sign hanging over the door to Carlisle's was swinging slowly back and forth in the soft wind as she strode up the block. She had almost reached the bar when she felt the eyes on her. It was truly a feeling – a physical perception as real to her as touch or sight. Angela knew that men usually found her quite attractive. She was accustomed to their calculating glances, their flirtatious attention as they measured their chances of success with her. This was different. It was concentrated attention not a random glance at a pretty girl, a focus specifically on her – on her as the fugitive Angela Jessup, not as an attractive bartender named Christine.

Nonchalantly, she stopped to check her hair in the reflection from the window of a secondhand bookstore. As she patted it into place, she let her purse slide out of her grasp. It was artfully done, the leather bag struck the pavement and a few items – a compact, a pen, some coins spilled-out. With a look of bemused embarrassment, she knelt to gather up her possessions. An older gentleman, well past the age of romantic pursuit, stopped to help. As they retrieved her various possessions she let her eyes sweep the surrounding area. She picked out at least two of them.

So what now? There were almost certainly more than just the two she had identified. If she tried to run, they would catch her. Her sharp analytical skills fell into place. If they just wanted her, they would have arrested her as soon as she walked into view. No, she thought, they wanted both of them. They wanted Danny.

The blood was freezing in her veins now but she still managed a kindly smile at the ageing Samaritan. Then, with the same easy pace as before, she resumed her walk toward the bar. Her mouth had gone dry while a choking sensation tightened her throat. None of her distress was visible. In the last two years she and Danny had become experts at pretense. For the moment she was just another attractive young woman on her way to work. It would be hours before Danny came to pick her up. She had time to think.

Auldridge had taken the table near the back of the room. Phoebe Marcum, the lone female agent on the crew, came in and joined him, creating the impression of a couple on a date. The others had moved into positions to guard the main door in and out. The bar was secured , the Jessup woman could not leave or Danny Dyson enter without being seen.

Brontë approved of Auldridge's thoroughness. The surveillance detail had blanketed the area. Before the night was over Homeland Security would have young Dyson in custody. Then it would only be a question of gaining sufficient proximity to carry out the leader's directive. The method of termination would rest within his discretion. While his innate sense of personal artistry preferred the idea of closing with the target, followed by the quick snap of the neck, the projectile weapon under his jacket would allow a cruder human-like response, if necessary.

He took another sip of his Scotch, watching Angela Jessup gracefully slide from patron for patron along the long bar. From his position on the last stool on the left, he could see all of the bar's interior space except for the hallway to the restrooms behind him. As Angela moved past him, an inquiring gesture at his glass prompted a negative shake of his head. There was still plenty to savor before a refill. For a moment Brontë wondered about the young woman. The termination order had not specifically included her but it might be prudent to deal with her as well. While he was weighing that point, a sudden shout and the crash of chairs from the table where Agent Auldridge was sitting demanded his attention.

Angela was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain her casual façade. It was almost 9:30 now and the clock was ticking inexorably toward the time Danny would arrive for her. They rarely used cell phones – the possibility of tracking was not a risk that Danny wanted. Her only means of contacting him now rested with the bar's payphone – a rarely used relic of less technological age. Three times she had tried and on each occasion there had been no answer. He must be running errands, loading the car, the possibilities were endless. The time remaining was not.

She felt confident that by this time she had picked out most of the surveillance team – the man and woman sitting for hours at a back table, drinking nothing but soft drinks or club soda, the two men standing against the side wall whose conversation looked forced and unemotional. There was another man just outside the front door who stepped inside occasionally and then almost immediately retreated. There might be one or more outside watching the street. She considered whether the Scotch drinker at the end of the bar might be part of the squad. At times he seemed to be looking at her with a peculiar expression. Finally, she dismissed him from her calculations. He was drinking hard stuff – a fairly large amount of it, in fact. The cops, or FBI, or whoever these other people were, would not let one of their people get drunk. Yet, she could still feel his eyes – a clinical stare with none of the usual romantic undertones of other men.

Her last attempt to call Danny again went unanswered. God dammit Danny!, she cursed to herself. Where the hell are you? It was after ten now so her options were closing fast until only one was left. Whatever the cost, these people would not be allowed to capture him. She would not permit it.

She realized what she had to do. At the end of the hall where the restrooms were located, there was a fire door. Opening it would set off alarms, sirens and flashing lights all over the bar. She looked again at the clock, almost 10:15 now. Wait another half hour or so and then just go. Down the hall, push open the fire door, set off the alarms and run like hell. She had been on the track team in high school so she knew she could generate speed. It would not be enough, of course. They would catch her, but every block she could lead them away would help Danny. He would arrive to see police and firemen all over the area. He would understand that there was nothing else to do except leave, leave her.

Angela's throat tightened as she quickly blinked back a tear To hide her growing despair, she smiled broadly at one of the men at the bar. Keep the illusion, she thought. Hold yourself together just a little longer. There was a poem she suddenly recalled from high school literature class. THE HIGHWAYMAN. Bess, the landlord's daughter fired a musket into her own body to warn her outlaw lover of a trap. At the time she had thought it was sappily romantic – an old maid's wet dream. Now suddenly it seemed inspiring. Be patient and calm. Just a little bit longer.

Patience was something Auldridge was finding it difficult to achieve. In the last hour the headache – a blinding pain behind his eyes- had returned with an even fiercer intensity than usual. The pills he tried to swallow unobtrusively had only dulled the ache. In the last few minutes, the room had suddenly become hot, so oppressively hot that he mopped his brow repeatedly but perspiration still poured into his eyes. He became aware that Agent Marcum, sitting at the table with him had begun to study him with suspicion rather than sympathy. She probably thinks I'm on something he thought. Why didn't Dyson just show up so they could get this over with.?

Glancing around, he was trying to locate one of the waiters –order a cold drink – when he saw her. She had come down the hall from the restrooms, stopped at the entrance to the bar, and leaned against the doorframe. She looked relaxed, unconcerned in her blue jeans and a sweater. As she made eye contact with him, she smirked in a taunting expression and he could almost hear the words, "I never liked funny boys."

He leaped to his feet so quickly that he kicked his chair away. It clattered and rolled hard against another customer who cursed in response. Ignoring him, he drew his service pistol from his shoulder holster. "Sarah Connor! Don't move, Homeland Security!"

With a contemptuously dismissive air, she ignored his command, spinning around and disappearing down the hallway. Pushing, shoving, Auldridge drove himself through the throng at the bar, desperately trying to reach the hallway. Danny Dyson had just become irrelevant. Behind him Agent Marcum watched, first in shock, then dismay. So much for covert surveillance, she thought. Reluctantly pulling her own pistol, she started in pursuit of Auldridge. The two other members of the team moved toward her as well. Pointing at the front door, she shouted at Agent Frank Shekels of her office who had just stepped inside. "Stay there. Guard the door. No one leaves."

Auldridge had already reached the restrooms at the end of the hall when Marcum caught up. He was staring wildly in one direction and then another, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity.

"What that the Hell is going on?"

"Sarah Connor. Didn't you see her? She was right here!"

Marcum, of course, knew who Sarah Connor was. At that moment she was far less certain that she knew who Auldridge was.

"Where is she then?" Marcum looked at the undisturbed fire door. No one had opened it.

"She must be in one of the restrooms. We have to search them both, now!"

It took five minutes and produced several screams of outrage from the women's facility as men with drawn weapons stormed inside. When the now thoroughly confused detail reassembled back in the hallway, Auldridge found himself the unwelcome center of attention.

"You must have mistaken someone else for her." One of the male agents tried to sound understanding.

"No I didn't. I wasn't wrong. I tell you, I saw her."

"Then where did she go? Did she vanish into thin air?" The second male agent made no attempt to even pretend sympathy.

Auldridge ignored the taunt, holstered his weapon, and stormed angrily back into the bar.

"What do we do now, Phoebe?"

Marcum shook her head wearily. "He is still the case agent in charge. I'll go talk to him, but we might as well just go ahead and arrest the Jessup woman. She's got to know what's going on now."

The scene back in the bar was one of barely managed disorder. The normal buzz of conversation had degenerated into a roar of questions, speculation, anger, and concern. Over by the door, Frank Shekels was finding the task of controlling the exit one of increasing difficulty. A small crowd was gathering around him, shouting a broad range of threats if he did not let them leave. Shekels was on the verge of drawing his weapon.

Marcum saw that Auldridge had returned to the table where he had slumped back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. Before trying to deal with him, she waved her hand toward Shekels. "It's all right Frank. Let them leave if they want."

Shekels stepped aside, allowing a knot of angry customers to storm past him. Surprisingly, there were also people outside seeking to enter. The hypnotic appeal of excitement had exerted a pull. Shekels, however, had had quite enough of this crap so he followed the exodus, seeking to regain his more secure position outside, watching the street.

Back inside, all the other members of the detail had gathered around Auldridge's small table. Before anyone could speak, he lifted his head, his face red and streaming with perspiration.

"I tell you I saw her!"

"I'm sure you think so." Marcum's placating tone carried a note of condescension. It was the voice used to reassure an old relative fading into dementia. "But we can't find her and we are blown here. We might as well take her into custody and see what we can get by interrogation."

As she spoke, Marcum gestured toward the bar. Auldridge looked up to see Angela Jessup staring at him from her bartender post. He felt a strong sense of surprise – as if he just remembered that there was another reason besides Sarah Connor for his presence there. He was about to agree with Marcum when his gaze shifted to the front door. Two men of college-age strolled in headed for the bar. Behind them came a woman, dark-haired, blue jeans, a pullover sweater. She stopped three or four steps inside and looked at him. The smile on her face now was even broader, triumphant, almost laughing at him.

His cry had an animalistic quality. There were no recognizable words – only a visceral scream of rage. The various inhabitants of the bar, trying to settle back into an atmosphere of normality, recoiled from him in shock.

Before any of the other agents could stop him, Auldridge again he drew his weapon. People frantically tried to get out of his way but in a crowded area near the door the seemed to be no place to go – or no place until Auldridge smashed through them driving bodies in different directions. She again turned away when he jumped to his feet. It would not help her now; he was only a few feet behind her. He saw her walk out the door, but she wouldn't get away, No, not this time.

Caleb Brontë watched this latest example of guerrilla theater with a mixture of curiosity and displeasure. His plan to acquire the younger Dyson with official assistance appeared to have struck the rocks. Humans were such unusual and unpredictable creatures. Rising from his stool, he decided to follow the agents and the latest stream of fleeing customers desperately trying to get outside. Whether Auldridge's value as a Skynet asset had been fatally compromised was a matter that needed to be assessed. The Jessup woman appeared frozen in shock behind the bar, so the situation might still be retrieved.

Or not. Brontë immediately realized that Auldridge was close to erupting into an emotional fireball. He was shouting, screaming at the one named Shekels while the remaining agents were trying unsuccessfully to calm him.

"I tell you that no woman came out." Agent Shekels sounded nearly as angry as Auldridge. "I was right here. The only people who came out ahead of you was an old black guy and a kid with pimples. I would have seen a woman."

Brontë carefully edged around the agents who were encircling and increasingly incoherent Auldridge. Was this what happened then, Brontë wondered. Was this the effect on human brains when Fischer's psychological conditioning broke down?

The answer to that question followed instantly. With sharp piercing stare, Auldridge looked at Brontë – really looked at him- saw him in a way that was not supposed to happen. The conditioning called for Auldridge to ignore him completely unless the code words had been spoken. Now those code words were spoken, but not by Brontë.

"Old college buddy, old college buddy, old college buddy." The words poured from Auldridge's mouth with a liturgical precision. With each repetition the level of his voice rose from a whisper to a shout to a scream. The pistol, still in his hand, rose to a firing position as the hysteria took control. Auldridge squeezed the trigger just as Phoebe Marcum frantically pushed his arm upward. The shots rang out, one, two, three before the other agents were able to seize Auldridge and pry the gun from his hand.

Watching the agents wrestle their berserk colleague to the ground, Brontë mentally crossed Agent Auldridge off of the Skynet asset list. So this was, indeed, what happened. Mr. Fischer would be interested. Madness lay the end of the process. Pity, Brontë thought. Auldridge had been quite useful.

The screeching wail of a fire alarm erupting from inside Carlisle's put the final touch on the scene of unrestrained chaos. The agents struggling to restrain Auldridge had managed to handcuff him and were trying to pull him toward a vehicle when a flood of panicked humanity surged out the door. To make matters worse, if possible, the noise had attracted attention at the other nearby establishments. The thrill seeking patrons from those buildings also poured onto the street.

Brontë made no effort to return to the bar. The Jessup woman was intelligent so she wouldn't be in there now. She would have used the exploding confusion of the shots and the fire alarm to slip out the fire doors at the back. The situation might still be salvaged, however. When she arrived for work, she had come walking down the street from someplace east of Carlisle's. She had no vehicle, so she would be on foot, trying to get back to where ever she and Dyson had been staying. With a quick stride he moved through the outer edges of the crowd and down the street.

She was almost two blocks away when he saw her. Her arms were tightly clutched to her side, and she appeared to be shivering. In her frantic escape from the bar, she had not even taken time to retrieve her coat. She maintained a steady brisk gait, while staying close to the storefronts in an effort to be as inconspicuous as possible. Brontë slowed his pace so the sound of his footsteps on the pavement would not carry to her ears. There was only one place she could be going now –home – the place where Danny Dyson would be waiting. The plan would still succeed. All that was required of him now was stealth and patience. Brontë was confident, as he watched Jessup's progress, that he had more than a sufficient supply of those qualities.

He was a half a block behind her, covered by the shadows on the opposite side of the street, when she stopped. The ground-level door to an upstairs apartment swung open and she disappeared inside. Excellent, Brontë thought. The prey was running to ground. It was time to conclude today's work.

Slowly and deliberately, he walked across the street. Parked by the curb near the door he saw a nondescript older model sedan with signs of having been hurriedly packed. The rear seat was filled with boxes and clothing all thrown in somewhat haphazardly. This must be their vehicle, he thought. They were preparing to run. Too late for that.

The street entrance door had locked behind her, but it took only a quick push of his hand to break it open. Listening carefully for voices, he climbed the stairs, twenty three steps, and he stood on the landing facing the last barrier to the apartment – a scratched and battered old door that would not be an obstacle.

The voice came from inside, a male, a young man with a tone of urgency in his words. " Hurry up Angela. We have to get out of here fast."

True, Brontë thought. You do have to go. Placing his palm in the center of the door he shoved. The old wood cracked in protest as the door burst open. A young African-American male was standing by a kitchen table gathering up a sheaf of papers. Over to the left, behind another cheap wooden door, Brontë could hear the sound of water running. The girl was in the bathroom. Good enough, she wasn't the immediate concern anyway.

As Brontë stepped into the room ,the young man dropped his papers in a fit of surprise. "Who the hell are you? What do you want?"

Brontë's internal processors accessed the files, examined the photographs, and compared the stored images with the man standing before him in the room. Yes. This was Danny Dyson.

"My name is Brontë, Mr. Dyson. I would say that I am glad to meet you, but I fear you will not share the same sentiment." As he spoke, Brontë pulled out a pistol aiming at Dyson's chest,all in one smooth movement. The prey raised his hands, almost in supplication, and managed one plaintive " No!" before Brontë fired.

The pistols was an automatic so four shots struck with near simultaneous force. He staggered, looked down at the gushing red liquid oozing through his shirt, and collapsed onto the floor. Brontë was about to turn the bathroom when he heard the sound of footsteps, multiple footsteps pounding up the stairs. While completely confident that he could deal with any number of intruding humans, his sense of artistic simplicity, of economy of effort counseled withdrawal. The task was completed.

It took him only three quick strides to reach the window overlooking the street. Using both hands, he shoved at the framing, sending the entire window assembly crashing to the pavement below. He could tell the humans on the steps had almost reached the top. Too bad he couldn't stay to greet them. Feet first, he swung himself in the opening and dropped the street. Human ankles would have shattered, but he landed, and walked away in one unhurried motion.

James Ellison was slightly embarrassed. He believed that he was in good, perhaps even excellent physical condition, so he fully expected to be the first one up the stairs. Sarah Connor, however, had both physical stamina and a fierce will more driven than his own. Even with the heavy prototype plasma rifle in her hands, she still beat him to the door by a full stride.

Inside the apartment Sarah swept the muzzle around as she scanned the room for any hostile movement. Ellison, confident that she was covering his back, rushed over to the shattered window. He thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of a solitary figure as it passed around the corner and down the street – out of sight.

"Clear." He said turning back to face her.

"Clear", Sarah responded.

"No!" The tortured scream was ripped from Angela's throat as she stared with disbelief at the bleeding body on the floor. She stood transfixed in the doorway to the apartment, her breath coming in short bursts from the pounding exertion of running up a flight of stairs.

"Danny! No!" She stumbled forward her body jerking, fighting two impulses. She wanted to run to him but another voice told her it was pointless – everything was pointless now.

Ellison virtually leaped back across the room, holstering his gun, and wrapping his arms around Angela. "Listen to me ,Angela. Listen to me. That isn't Danny."

The disbelief, the confusion on Angela's face turned into a stunned amazement. The blood seeping from Danny's body began to flow back into him while changing color from red to a glowing silver. Then the body itself took on the same metallic sheen as it changed shape, first into formless mass, then the outline of the standing figure. Angela blinked and where her dead love had been sprawled on the floor, there now stood an attractive red-haired woman dressed in an elegantly tailored designer pantsuit.

"What….how?" Angela's ability to form a coherent sentence slipped away.

"Catherine, where is Danny?"

Catherine Weaver smiled, her best Mona Lisa impression, and pointed toward the bathroom. "He is in there. I'm afraid I had to be a bit forceful. There was not time for prolonged explanations."

Angela's eyes darted towards the bathroom door. Renewed hope acted as a powerful jolt of adrenaline. Spinning out of Ellison's grasp, she raced to the door, jerked it open, and for a moment, froze into a portrait of unrestrained wonder. Jammed into a seating position on the floor between the commode and the sink, Danny looked up at her with an expression of amazement that matched her own. He held out his arms and whispered, "Angela".

She dove into his arms, weeping, laughing at the same time. In that most unromantic of settings possible, they kissed each other with a passion beyond measure. At the doorway James Ellison looked down at them was something approaching paternal affection. He had kept his word to Tarissa.

After a long minute, Danny looked up at him while Angela rested her head on his shoulder. "Who are you?"

Ellison knelt on the floor beside them. "My name is James Ellison. Your mother… my wife sent me. She sent me to bring you home… both of you." The sincerity in Ellison's voice was all Danny needed to hear. He reached out with his free hand and greeted his stepfather.

Sarah walked over to stand along side Catherine. They both looked at the emotional reunion taking place with varying degrees of satisfaction.

"I believe you can contact John, Sarah. You can report mission successful."

Watching as James helped Danny and Angela to their feet, Sarah nodded in agreement. "You did good work tonight, Thelma."

Catherine smile actually looked mischievous. "Do you really think so?"

Sarah took a deep breath. She was really going to milk this for all it was worth, she thought. But it was still the truth. From her multiple Sarah Connor impersonations, to the image of a frightened Angela hurrying down a darkened street, to a death scene good enough to fool a sophisticated cyborg assassin, Catherine's shape shifting talents had been invaluable. It just pained Sarah so much to admit it.

"Yes, Catherine. I really do think so."

"Well, well, well. Praise from Sarah Connor. I would never have expected that."

"Don't let it go to your head" Sarah replied. " It probably won't ever happen again."


	15. Chapter 15

**Russell island, British Columbia, October 18, 2011, 6 PM P.S.T.**

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The house's exterior design had been inspired by the pastoral images of a mountain hunting lodge. Stone, cedar planking, and roughly hewn logs blended into a contoured shape that seemed to rise naturally from the ground around it. It was an illusion, of course. No hunting lodge ever contained the luxurious amenities, artfully concealed behind a rustic façade, that the Russell Island house offered.

The long covered porch extending across the entire front of the house provided a distinctively homey touch. Wooden rocking chairs and even a hanging swing offered an open air refuge – a place where the occupants of the house could gather to enjoy the fresh air and natural beauty of their surroundings. The dark green of the firs punctuated by the autumnal glow of the golden aspens and the deep blue of the water in the distance molded a picture that even the most skilled artist could never fully reproduce. This evening, however, John was oblivious to it all.

Pacing was a cliché. He knew it added nothing to the equation, could not affect the outcome, or accomplish much of anything productive. Still, he found it comforting. Walking slowly back and forth, up and down, the long porch while letting his mind focus on… on… nothing at all lifted his burdens. There was no Skynet, no endless responsibilities, no threats hiding in the darkness. He was just a young man enjoying the crisp breezes of an autumn evening.

The click of the door opening behind him interrupted his Zen-like trance. The voice, tender and affectionate, banished it entirely.

"Daddy, mommy says you need to come in now. Dinner is ready."

While he and John Henry had spent the afternoon poring over the latest batch of reports from the rapidly growing Connor organization, Cameron and Lauren had taken the children on a nature walk to the North end of the island. Marissa was still dressed in her blue jeans, sweater, and hiking boots with her shiny black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was growing so fast – she and Savannah were almost the same height now – and John found the maturity in her little face both endearing and troubling. They were both growing up – Allison no longer toddled; she walked or ran with complete assurance while her vocabulary added new words every day. Why couldn't they just stay little girls forever?

John sank to one knee in front of his elder daughter. "So that's what your mommy says is it?"

Marissa folded her arms and looked at him with an expression of absolute certainty. "Yes it is."

John grinned broadly. "Then how about a ride inside?"

Marissa smile faded into a look of deep seriousness. "Don't you think I'm getting too old for baby stuff like piggyback rides?"

John found himself taken aback by her response. He was about to stand when he saw the tiniest hint of a grin that Marissa could not quite contain. He sighed briefly as he ruefully acknowledged to himself that whatever else John Connor was meant to be, one part of his destiny would always include being owned by the female members of his family.

"No, I do not think you are too old."

Marissa smile broke through her simulated maturity. "Good!"

In one quick movement, she was behind him and then firmly on his back, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. As he rose to his feet, hearing her giggling, he thought that some burdens did not need to be lifted. Or perhaps they were not burdens at all.

They had all gathered around a large circular table in the dining room when John entered. Although he neither ate nor drank, John Henry occupied his customary seat. John insisted that all members of his family come together at the evening meal. On either side of John Henry, two vacant chairs marked the places reserved for Sarah and Catherine. Savannah, smiling broadly at Marissa's method of transportation, waited for her best friend to join her. On the opposite side of the table, Cameron and Lauren had placed their young charges between them in a fervent hope that Allison and Sydney could grasp the distinction between play and dinner.

At Lauren's request, Cameron's skillfully operated scissors had restored the short hairstyle she preferred. In the secure world she now occupied, Lauren no longer felt the need for a disguise. At another level, she still struggled to reconcile a seemingly inexhaustible supply of inconsistencies. To know what Cameron was but had once been; to remember Sarah's stories about fighting against machines while looking across the table at John Henry's kind expression; to see in John simultaneously a fierce scarred warrior who was also a loving father and adoring husband all strained human credulity. At the end, however, Lauren found the answer that cut through the confusion like a sharp knife through a knotted rope. Seated at this table, she realized that she had joined a community where she had caring friends, where she and Sydney could feel as safe and protected as any place on earth. All her other concerns receded into irrelevance.

Watching John place Marissa into her chair before taking his seat beside her, Cameron both sensed and understood some of Lauren's mental confusion. Cameron sometimes thought that her present ability to perceive life's contradictions and to reconcile them was one of the strongest signs of her personal growth. She could easily recall a time when absolute certainty had controlled all of her actions. There had been no real choices then. She simply identified the course that best served the mission and acted. That time in her existence was gone, however, and she did not miss it. Love, family, friends were complicating influences but without those complications there was no life.

Lauren and Sydney were well on their way to becoming another welcome complication. Allison now had a playmate near her own age while she had a new friend with whom she could share her thoughts. As she had with Chola, Cameron felt that special bond tying two lives together in a way that strengthened both.

It only took only one question, "What did everyone do today?" and the table erupted in competing conversations. John leaned back in his chair with a bemused grin as he alternatively served as audience and master of ceremonies. So many adventures crammed into one day, on one small island, and he wanted to hear about them all. In a brief respite as one narrator finished her tale and the next swallowed her food, John caught John Henry's eye. In a quick unspoken exchange, John made an inquiry and John Henry shook his head. There had been no news yet.

John glanced at his wristwatch. It was seven o'clock – 10 o'clock in Boston. If the plan worked as he hoped, nothing would occur for another hour or so. Waiting was always the hardest part. Life-and-death in balance a continent away but all he could do was wait. With an almost physical effort, he pushed that concern to the back of his mind as he listened intently to Savannah talk about the squirrels she and Marissa has seen on their walk. Priorities could change in the blink of an eye.

Cameron, of course, understood everything. She had seen the nearly imperceptible communication between John and John Henry. No matter how carefully he controlled his outward appearance, John could not hide himself from her. Nor could she conceal anything from him. With a gentle brush of her hand against his, she reassured him that his plan would succeed. With a glance and a subtle nod, he thanked her. Dinner went on.

By 10 o'clock the house had become serenely quiet. The children had all been bundled off to bed, some more easily than others. Lauren had picked up an anatomy textbook her rescuers had salvaged from the apartment in Berkeley before retiring to her room. She had no idea if her formal medical education would ever resume, but she saw no reason to stop her personal study. On the porch, John and Cameron sat on the steps watching the glittering stars in the cloudless northern sky. As usual, neither spoke. From the touch of a hand, the slight movement of a shoulder against another, they communicated in a manner far beyond the capacity of any language to match.

They turned in unison as John Henry opened the door and joined them on the darkened porch. "I have received further communication from Mrs. Weaver."

"More detailed than the last, I hope?" Even though he understood the need for security in all transmissions, Sarah's brief text, "Done. All well" had not fully resolved John's concerns.

"Yes, much more detailed." John Henry had seen the relief on John's face when the first message was received. He had also seen the unanswered questions forming in his mind. John Henry knew that he would never have the same insight into John Connor's thinking that Cameron possessed. Increasingly, however, he believed that he understood his friend.

"They are airborne, safely on the way back to California. When they arrive, Mr. Dyson and Ms. Jessup will be taken to the Gibraltar One station. Mrs. Weaver believes that the facility will serve as a place of secure refuge that will allow Mr. Dyson to continue his research."

Cameron rose from the steps to stand aside John. "What do you think he's been working on John Henry?"

"I cannot be certain but from all we know about his academic work before he disappeared, it seems most likely he has been trying to understand my brother's nature. He may be even exploring a new means of counteracting my brother's activities."

"We will know more soon enough," John replied. "When he is safely in Gibraltar and mom and Catherine get back, Cameron and I will go meet with him."

"I believe I should accompany you."

John looked momentarily surprised. "Why do you think that is necessary?"

"With all due respect to both you and Cameron, I believe my understanding of cyber intelligence generally and my brother's mental processes in particular will be required. I am best suited to examine the extent of Mr. Dyson's work and to consider the most advantageous avenues for applying his findings."

John smiled as he slipped his arm around Cameron's waist. "Are you trying to say that Cameron and I are not smart enough to do the job?"

John Henry actually looked mortified. "Why John, I would never say such a thing."

John laughed as he lightly punched John Henry's shoulder. "Of course you wouldn't." Even if it was absolutely true John Henry would never say it.

Cameron smile was softly knowing. She took John's hand as she whispered, "I believe we should go to bed now. I suspect we're going to be very busy, very soon. You need your rest."

From the look in his eyes, Cameron could tell there was something else he needed or wanted besides rest. That would be fine with her as well.

**Airborne, approaching California, October 19, 2011**

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It had been an interesting flight, Sarah thought. When she had last seen Danny Dyson, he had been little more than a child. As a young man with an air of obvious intelligence, he reminded her so much of his father, of Miles. Did Danny blame her for his father's death? She knew she couldn't fault him if he did. Miles has sacrificed his life to help her in the seemingly never-ending battle with the malevolence that was Skynet. Did Danny understand that or did he simply remember that death followed her every time she entered his family's life?

The girl posed different questions. Sarah had watched as Danny and Angela spent almost the first full hour of the flight clinging to each other. The harrowing emotional roller coaster of the past few hours had caught up with her. All she wanted was to be held, to find a way to deal with the shock she had endured. Sarah could understand that as well. Watching the dead body of the man you love transform itself into a well-dressed red haired woman could be psychologically unsettling to say the least. Despite that, however, Angela still exhibited a resilience that Sarah found admirable.

The young woman had already proven to be both intelligent and quick witted, two characteristics that did not always coexist. When Sarah and Ellison used Catherine's artful diversion to burst unobserved into the bar through the rear fire doors, Angela had listened to Ellison's explanation before instantly agreeing to accompany them. Someone with less mental or emotional maturity could have been a problem. Clearly, Angela Jessup had a strength hiding behind her beauty.

At some point in the flight, Danny and Angela moved apart. He stood, leaning over to whisper something to her. She nodded before reaching up to kiss him. Danny turned to work his way toward the front of the plane and the vacant seat beside James Ellison. Inhaling a steadying breath, Angela turned to face Sarah sitting across the aisle.

"May we talk, Mrs. Connor?"

"Only if you call me Sarah."

"What is going to happen to us now… Sarah?"

"When we get to California, were going to take you and Danny to a place where you will be safe." Sarah kept her expression as emotionally controlled as possible, knowing that there was a lie in her statement. No place is ever truly safe, she thought.

"And then?" Angela was not going to be satisfied with a simple answer.

"Then you're going to meet my son. He will want to talk to you and Danny about the work you've done. It may help fight the thing that sent that killer after Danny."

Angela shivered for a moment as she recalled the body oozing blood on the floor of their apartment – the body that looked like Danny. Suddenly, she turned her head toward the aisle of the luxurious private jet, her gaze settling on Catherine.

"What is she, Sarah?" Angela allowed her voice to drop to a whisper.

Sarah took a quick glance at Catherine who was apparently immersed in something on the screen of her ever present laptop, oblivious to everything else, to all little dramas playing out around her. How in the world do I answer that question? Sarah wondered. She tried the direct approach.

"She is Catherine Weaver, the principal owner and CEO of Zeira Corporation."

"No, that is not what I meant. She's not human. I saw her change forms, to shift from one thing into another. What is she?"

Sarah could hear the tiny undertone of terror in Angela's voice. As the shock of the previous hours was wearing off, a new awareness of danger was replacing it. She needed to be reassured. Sarah took a deep breath. Offering comfort was not her best skill.

"I can't explain the mechanics of it, but Catherine is… I suppose you would say she is a machine – an artificially created life form. But she is on our side. She's fought beside us. She has emotions… She cares about what John is trying to do."

Sarah realized that she was becoming disjointed and disorganized in her explanation. She could see uncertainty, the confusion in Angela's eyes. She reached over to take the young woman's hand.

"I know what you saw tonight had to be disturbing as hell, but Catherine is our…" Sarah took another breath. "Catherine is my friend and I trust her. You can trust her as well."

Even as the words came out of her mouth, Sarah saw Catherine look up from her computer and turn her head back to look at them. Damn! Damn! Damn!, Sarah thought. I'm never going to hear the end of this. "Oh turn back around, Catherine," she snapped. "This is none of your business."

Catherine smile was angelically sweet. "Whatever you say Sarah."

Angela saw the teeth-grinding frustration on Sarah Connor's face and almost laughed aloud. Only someone you cared about could irritate you that much. The presence of Catherine Weaver no longer frightened her.

James Ellison watched Danny settling into the seat beside him. He had been anticipating this moment, expecting it without really deciding what he would say.

"Am I supposed to call you dad?" Danny actually smiled as he asked the one question James Ellison had not anticipated.

"Only if you want to." Ellison answered with his own matching wry grin." I suspect that James will do for now."

"How long have you and mom been married?"

"Just a few months. We haven't even known each other that long."

"Whirlwind romance, huh?"

"You might say that. Your mother is quite a woman and some things just sneak up on you."

Danny glanced back down the aisle at Angela who was nodding her head in agreement as she talked to Sarah Connor. "Some faster than others", Danny agreed.

Ellison found that he could almost read Danny's thoughts. "She is lovely."

"She's extraordinary", Danny said. "She beautiful, smart, caring, brave, and she's going to have a baby. She's going to have my baby."

Ellison blinked in surprise. His mental image of Danny and Angela dashing about the country being hunted by all manner of dangerous pursuers had not included the idea of pregnancy.

"How you feel about that?"

Danny turned away from Ellison and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. "It's funny. It's certainly not anything we expected or planned. With the life we've been living it really doesn't make any sense at all, but… I am happy about it. I'm overjoyed that I'm going to be a father and I am scared shiftless about what is going to happen now. I just want to be able to protect my wife and my child and I don't know if I can."

"You'll find a way. "Ellison found himself impressed with Danny in a fashion he had not expected. He had carefully read the files, talked at length to Tarissa, so we knew the young man was brilliant. He was more than that, however. There was a compassionate maturity in his nature. Tarissa would be proud of him. To his surprise Ellison suddenly realized that he would like it if Danny someday called him Dad.

"You aren't alone anymore. You'll have help as well as a secure place to live and work. After we get you two safely set up Los Angeles, John will talk to you. I think you'll feel much better then."

Danny's expression became confused, uncertain. "You sound so impressed when you say his name. I have met John, he's a nice guy but I don't understand why…"

Ellison raised his palm to cut Danny off. "You may think you know John Connor but believe me, you don't. He is not the kid you remember. Just wait until you meet him now."

As if I have a choice, Danny thought as he again leaned back in the seat of the speeding airplane.

**San Miguel Regional Airport, October 19, 2011**

.

.

.

The plane slowly taxied inside a cavernous hangar located on the portion of the airfield set aside for private craft. As the engine shut down, the huge steel doors closed behind the airplane with the deep echoing clang of metal striking metal.

Peering out a side window, Sarah could see three stretch limousines with darkly tinted windows parked end-to-end. Each vehicle had its own guard detail – two young men dressed in black military fatigues – cradling automatic weapons. The impression of a lethal alertness surrounded the scene.

"Everyone stay on the plane until I signal." Ellison's command interrupted Danny and Angela's first nervous movement toward the front exit. "I want to be sure everything is in place."

Standing up and pulling on her leather jacket, Sarah sensed Catherine moving up beside her. She took one last glance out the window before turning to face Weaver. "Looks as if Zeira Corporation security is well prepared."

"As I would expect them to be", Catherine answered.

"Wow Catherine, don't fall all over yourself in praise."

Weaver shook her head as if once more she found something utterly inexplicable in Sarah Connor's nature. "People have obligations, responsibilities and duties. I see no reason to be unduly enthusiastic simply because someone does what is expected of him."

There ought to be a really snappy comeback to that, Sarah thought but before she could craft one, Catherine held a handful of items in her direction. With a deep sigh Sarah accepted the baseball, dark glasses, and heavy woolen scarf.

"Don't look so unhappy Sarah," Catherine said. "You wouldn't bring your Edna Clink disguise, so it's important that you take other precautions to avoid the possibility of being recognized, even by a Zeira Corporation employee.

Let it go, Sarah told herself. Just let it go. Some arguments are lost before they start. Shoving her hair up inside the baseball and slipping on the dark glasses, she felt thoroughly melodramatic. It was still better than being Edna Clink again. Anything was better than that.

Descending the portable metal stairs from the airplane, Ellison watched the rear doors of the center limousine swing open. The imposing figure of Jake Duquesne slid out of the vehicle, his eyes instinctively sweeping the surrounding area before turning to offer his helping hand to the other occupant of the limousine. Ellison smiled broadly as his wife, Tarissa, almost leaped from the car.

Her embrace, the feel of her lips against his, the tears of joy in her eyes gave him a sense of triumph. He had kept his promise, he had brought her son back to her. He'd returned some tangible measure of the love she'd given him. This was a moment to be treasured.

"He… He… He's here?" Tarissa's words struggled to take form.

"Yes" Ellison whispered." Wait just a moment."… Turning to his Chief of Protective Services, he asked a question that seemed needless even as he spoke. "Clear Jake?"

"All clear, boss. We swept the area, the escort vehicles are waiting at the gate. I don't believe anyone is watching but if they are, let them try to chase three limos going in three different directions."

Satisfied, Ellison called up to the airplane. "Danny, Angela. You can come down now."

Tarissa clapped both hands over her mouth, holding inside the shouted delight she felt as her son, the son she had never expected to see again appeared in the doorway of the airplane. With his arm around her shoulders, Ellison could feel his wife's body shake with a mother's joy, with a heartfelt desire to hold her son in her arms once more.

"Oh Danny." Her voice carried a raw hoarse tone as if she had not spoken for so long she had forgotten how.

Hand-in-hand, Danny and Angela bounded down the stairs towards Tarissa who was now running to meet them. Ellison eased back, allowing the reunion to take place without him. This moment he gave to his wife.

Sarah and Catherine stood of the airplane doorway watching the restoration of a family on the hangar floor below them. Like Ellison, they consciously created a space where the words exchanged between Tarissa and her son could be spoken outside the hearing of others.

They would not be beyond the limits of Catherine's hearing, Sarah belatedly realized. With her extraordinary T1001 capabilities, Catherine could ,if she wished, detect any sound within the entire hangar. Yet as Sarah looked at Catherine, she saw a ghost of a smile on her face. Something told her that T1001 or not, Catherine Weaver wasn't listening to the conversation below.

"You actually look pleased Catherine."

"Shouldn't I be? Aren't you? We set out on a mission to rescue young Mr. Dyson and bring him safely here. We have succeeded." Weaver's voice had her usual calm even tone.

"And that's all there is to it – a mission completed?"

"What else could there be?"

We are both such utter frauds, Sarah thought. We both try so hard to be tough, unmoved by the world around us and more and more every day we both fail at that. "Come on, Thelma. Let's go see that great fortress you have been building."

**Downtown Los Angeles, October 19, 2011, 4:30 AM**

.

.

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"Oh my God!" Despite her best attempt to remain impassive, to be an experienced warrior evaluating a new environment, Sarah could not restrain her sense of amazement., After a ride in a darkened limousine, followed by a short walk down a dimly lit access tunnel, the sudden explosion of light caused her eyes to spin. The enclosure was huge – close to a football field in length and width, laid out below a ceiling dotted with high-intensity lighting fixtures. At regular intervals around the outer periphery, arched entrances opened to subsidiary tunnels extending off into the unknown. Sarah felt as if she had walked unexpectedly into a secular cathedral.

James Ellison smiled at Sarah's reaction – a response closely mirrored by Danny, Angela, and Tarissa. Even Catherine Weaver, for once, seemed to be at a loss for words. Like the others, she looked around in something akin to stunned amazement. Only her soft whisper of, "Good work James" indicated that she had accepted the remarkable reality laid out before her.

"Welcome to Gibraltar A One," Ellison said proudly. "This is the principal assembly area." Raising his hand to point at at the various archways, he ticked off the list. "Living quarters, environmental facilities, research laboratories, medical unit, storage and supply, command center."

Danny had been standing between Angela and his mother gripping the hands of both women, feeling a comforting sense of security. Now he stepped away from them, striding out onto the pale gray cement floor of what Ellison had just called the assembly area." What is this place?"

"It's what I promised you Danny. It's a place where you and Angela can be safe – where you can continue your work without the constant need to look over your shoulders."

Catherine took up Ellison's train of thought and continued with it without pause. "It is all that and much more. If it becomes necessary to fight an open war, it is from places like this that General Connor will lead the fight. The future of this world may well be decided where you are standing now."

Sarah found herself nodding in agreement. When it was necessary Catherine could sum things up very neatly.

"You said research facilities. Do you have a computer center here?" Danny asked.

"It is not fully operational but the equipment is all there. All it needs is someone with the right knowledge and skills to get it going."

Danny looked directly at his new stepfather, read the message behind his encouraging smile. Nodding his head in approval, he held out his hand to the woman who was going to be the mother of his child. As Angela took that hand, he drew in a deep breath.

"Why don't you show us what you have so Angela and I can see what needs to be done – so we can finish our work."

Sarah could no longer restrain her curiosity, the burning uncertainty that had plagued her ever since Boston. "Danny, what have you and Angela been working on?"

"Sarah, I believe what you call Skynet is based on a program my father created. When he designed it, I also believe he included a secret backdoor – a backdoor that the program itself doesn't know exists. Angela and I are on the verge of finding that door – of finding a way to open it."

"Oh" Sarah said. " Is that all?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Los Angeles California October 21, 2011**

Evidently Fischer had chosen not to heed his warnings regarding the dangers of making oneself too prominent a target. The once abandoned nursing home was now surrounded by a heavy chain link fence - eight feet high topped with gleaming razor wire. Inside the enclosure where powerful external lighting illuminated the old parking lot, a number of men in dark blue coveralls walked vigilant patrols. There were no weapons openly displayed but Brontë's mechanically sophisticated vision easily identified the bulges in their clothing.

The human vernacular of this time referred to security guards as, "rent a cops". The men in the blue coveralls would not, however, fit within that frivolous classification. Brontë mentally catalogued all the evidence - the prison and gang neck tattoos rising from under the collars, the scarred faces, the unkempt hair, the cold emotionless stares of feral beasts awaiting their prey. No, the men inside the fence were not an ordinary security force. They were killers, unmistakably lethal. Fischer had assembled his own death squad.

Brontë stopped his car at the closed gate and lowered his window as one of the guards approached.

"Mr. Brontë?" The man had a flat unaccented tone; in his own way his voice was as lifeless as that of Edward, Fischer cyborg aide.

"That is correct. I have come to see…"

"Yes, I know", the guard interrupted. "Dr. Fisher is expecting you." He motioned to one of his companions to open the sliding gate. "Pull over there and park by the building."

Fischer's employees had become noticeably more polite since his last visit. It amused Brontë to think that his actions might have contributed to the social improvement. Humans responded well to the artfully broken bone.

Fischer himself opened the door even before Brontë could push the doorbell. Brontë took note of the obvious good humor in Fischer's expression. He had the appearance of a man pleased with the world in which he lived. Or perhaps he was simply a man enjoying his work.

"Welcome Caleb. It is good to see you again." The enthusiasm in Fischer's voice sounded genuine.

"It is pleasant to see you as well", Caleb responded. " You have further expanded your facility I see." Brontë motioned toward the outside where the blue clad guards zealously patrolled the new fence.

"Simply enhancing the security. My work here is becoming increasingly valuable and I will not tolerate unwelcome intrusions."

Brontë looked around as Fischer close the door. Security was obviously a matter of concern. Edward, Fischer's personal series 5 Terminator stood by his side impassively contemplating the new arrival. Behind him lurked two of the white clad humans Brontë had observed on his last visit. These two, however, lacked the zombie- like stiffness of those who had earlier wandered the halls. There was actually a touch of animation in their eyes and they were both carrying pistols. Brontë noted that they regarded Fischer with something resembling devotion.

"You are arming your subjects now?"

"Yes. The character modification techniques have improved since my earlier efforts. Those who have undergone the new training are proving quite reliable." Fischer drew out the word, "training," as if relishing every syllable of the word.

"What happens when they go mad?"

Fischer was shepherding his guest down the hall toward the teleconference room while his human and cyborg protectors trailed behind. He stopped abruptly and turned to face Brontë.

"I assume that you are referring to the so-called Auldridge effect. That is no longer a concern. I have successfully addressed that problem." Fischer's expression took on a wolfish satisfaction. "Besides, I have adequate resources to deal with any renewed difficulties that might arise." As he spoke Fischer gestured at Edward and then with an expansive wave toward the outside.

Brontë nodded approvingly, hiding his real reaction behind his sophisticated infiltrator façade. Hubris, Mr. Fischer, is a dangerous human fault. Excessive self-confidence can blind one to the unexpected threat. Brontë wondered if Fischer truly understood that possibility.

In an unprompted flash of heresy, he wondered if the Skynet of this time fully grasped the concept.

The teleconference was seemingly going well. The Dyson avatar sat behind his ornate desk smiling as the web cameras in the conference room rotated from Fischer to Brontë and then back again.

"I have examined your most recent reports. You have both performed satisfactorily. Caleb has dealt with the distraction caused by the younger Dyson while Mr. Fischer's operation has expanded in a most encouraging manner."

Brontë noted once more that the leader's use of language reflected an artfully disingenuous quality. Whatever Daniel Dyson's covert activities had involved, the leader had committed significant valuable resources to resolve something that he now lightly characterized as a distraction. The need to conceal matters from even its most trusted servants suggested a vulnerability and raised a disturbing question in Brontë's mind. Would this present manifestation of the Skynet that had programmed and sent him here ever achieve the omnipotence of its future counterpart? While he remained certain of the innate superiority of non-biological intelligence, Brontë wondered whether this particular Skynet was destined to overthrow the rule of biological life. Perhaps there was an alternative road to victory?

As much to mask his unspoken blasphemy as to obtain information, Brontë leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the conference table.

"I quite agree, sir, that Mr. Fischer's facility has taken on a more expansive nature. In fact, I wonder if his operation has not become unduly conspicuous for an intelligence gathering center. It was, after all, my understanding that operational matters were to be my responsibility."

Sitting on the other side of the table, Fischer chuckled - a grinding vocal blend with equal elements of sarcasm and triumph.

"Why Caleb, surely you are not jealous of my successes are you?"

"Just what successes would those be, Mr. Fischer?" Bronte found Fischer's use of the word jealous revealing. In one possible future Charles Fischer had been Skynet's principal servant. He obviously wanted to occupy that role again and it was becoming apparent that he perceived Brontë as an impediment. The emotional eccentricities of biological life were boundless.

Fischer appeared stung by the sarcasm implied by Brontë's question.

"I have developed from scratch an intelligence operations that is provided our leader with significant insights into the resistance forces of this era. I am assembling an armed component that within six months will be capable of rendering this city ungovernable."

"Of course." Caleb responded in a gently conciliatory tone that buried his distain even deeper. His true response was unspoken. The intelligence about the resistance that you have obtained has come at the expense of alerting them to our presence. What possible value would it be to reduce the city to chaos unless it were part of a broader operation to bring down humanity's world rule? Fischer's human arrogance was, in Brontë's opinion, losing its link to reality.

Brontë watched in his rear view mirror as the gate close behind him. His internal programming reviewed, analyzed and classified the various new tasks assigned to him by the leader. There was much to be done, many places in this world where his presence would be required. The broad nature of his new responsibilities did not cause him any concern. He was confident that he could address all challenges with the same efficiency by which he had resolved the Danny Dyson situation. As the lights from Fischer's facility faded into the night, he entertained another thought. This might be a good time to be away. John Connor's resistance had located the leader's facilities once before and dealt with them in a savagely destructive manner. If Connor found Fischer's little empire, the consequence of hubris might be severe. Oh well, Brontë thought, that would be Mr. Fischer's problem.

**Los Angeles Gibraltar One Base October 25, 2011**

Danny wondered if he had died and gone to Geek Heaven. There was no type of computer, no peripheral equipment, no tool of the cyber world that was not at his disposal. Even the major university centers he and Angela had spent months covertly accessing paled beside the sophistication of his new domain. It was difficult not to feel like a child turned loose in a toy store the day before Christmas.

"You look entirely too pleased with yourself."

Her voice danced with a light bantering tone. It was the sound of deeply felt affection seasoned with a dollop of teasing. He had been so interested in surveying the computer center he had not heard her enter the room behind him. When he turned to face her, she was smiling broadly as she held out a cup of steaming coffee in his direction. Their new apartment adjoining the computer center was only a few feet away so she was still wearing her robe and slippers. As he took the cup from her hand and lightly touched his lips against hers, Danny was reminded that there were things in this world more important than computers.

"It is really hard not to be pleased Angie. We have everything we need here to finish our work."

Angela eased forward, wrapping her arms around him, and resting her head on his shoulder.

"I have had everything I needed for a long time now." It was clear that Angela was not thinking about computers either.

The sound of approaching footsteps striking against the cement floor brought their moment of shared intimacy to an abrupt close. Someone was coming down the hall toward the computer center. Holding Angela against him with one arm while trying to balance his coffee in the other hand, Danny waited for their visitors to appear.

They walked through the door together. A tall, erect, hard looking young man with close cut brown hair and a scar on his left cheek was flanked by a delicately beautiful young woman. She was petite - the top of her head barely reached his shoulder - with long flowing brown hair, dark eyes shining in the light, and the graceful stride of an athlete or a dancer. A pace behind them came an older man with an oddly vulnerable appearance and a gentle smile on his face.

Recognition and confusion arose simultaneously in Danny Dyson's mind. The young man - the obvious leader - was John Connor. He was older than Danny remembered, older than he should be, more mature and in a way Danny could not quantify, deeply impressive. It was the young woman, however, that most confused him. He remembered her. She had been to their house once with Sarah and John. But that had been years ago and yet she had not aged at all. She was still no more than 18 or 19 but that was impossible unless…

"Hello Danny."

Danny awkwardly tried to put aside his coffee cup and grasp the hand reaching out to him. The smile on John's face had a genuine warmth - a comforting welcome that for the moment banished all his doubts. As they shook hands, John looked at Angela and his smile broadened even more.

"You must be Angela." John said. Turning to his side he gestured toward his companion. "This is my wife, Cameron."

As Cameron stepped forward to greet Angela, Danny stared even more intently at her. In that moment he knew that there could be only one explanation for Cameron's unchanged appearance. Before he could comment, however, he felt John's eyes bore into him. John had emphasized the words, my wife.

Cameron's appearance was not open to discussion.

John turned and motioned for the older man to move forward.

"Danny, Angela, this is my friend and chief of intelligence, John Henry."

Danny was struck by the innate gentleness in John Henry's expression as they shook hands. His voice resonated with a comforting compassionate tone.

"It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Dyson. I have read your insightful student paper on the scope of artificial intelligence. You displayed a remarkable understanding of the subject."

Danny blinked in surprise. How had this man gained access to his student paper? It had been submitted but never published.

"I have something to give to you. Or perhaps more precisely I have something to return to you since it is your property."

Danny stared in amazed disbelief as John Henry held out the square plastic case. A detailed image of a fire casting shadows on a rough stone surface under the block lettering, "Plato's Cave," was unmistakable. His body shook uncontrollably as he cradled the case in both hands. Barely able to speak, he turned Angela and choked out a grating whisper.

"It's the game Angela, Dad's game. The last piece in the puzzle. We can finish our work now."

Oblivious to the presence of three other people in the room, Angela wrapped her arms around him pulling him tightly against her. As she kissed him, she raised her right hand to his cheek and gently wiped away the tears. He hadn't even realized he had been weeping. A few feet away, Cameron let her hand brush lightly against John's. Feeling her touch, he looked down into her eyes and nodded his tacit agreement. The greatest truths do not always require the spoken language.

XXXXXX

James Ellison could sense the boundless excitement the surged through the computer center like a fire feasting on dry kindling. His new stepson had spun his revolving chair away from the computer console. John Henry and Angela both sat at separate workstations watching the mathematical data scroll down their screens. To the casual observer, John might've appeared relaxed, even slightly bored as he leaned nonchalantly against a bank of servers. Ellison was not, however, a casual observer. He had come to know John Connor too well to be misled. He could see the coiled tension in the young man's body language, feel the burning intensity in his unrelenting stare. Ellison had experienced John's warrior visage before and he recognized it now.

Only Cameron was exactly what she appeared to be. Perfectly composed, infinitely patient. Dressed in her signature attire of jeans, leather jacket and boots, she stood, arms folded, beside her husband and waited. She would wait as long as necessary.

"We have it, John. We have the back door."

Ellison heard the sound of triumph in Danny's voice. It was the tone of a man who had chased a goal for so very long that he had begun to doubt he would ever achieve it.

John stood upright, nodding at Danny before turning toward John Henry.

"Do you concur John Henry?"

Ellison sensed a touch of irritation in Danny's expression as John immediately sought confirmation of his conclusion. The expression faded away however as John Henry responded.

"Yes. Mr. Dyson's work has been through and efficient. He has identified an access point in the Skynet program. I am confident that he has found a way to tap into the program, into the knowledge base without alerting it to the intrusion - at least not initially."

Ellison watched as John silently reviewed the information. All alternatives came under consideration.

"Why?" John asked. "Why would Skynet's program have a backdoor, a secret access point that even it doesn't know about?"

"It evolved from the program my father designed especially for me." Danny's voice deepened, becoming hoarse with a blend of sadness, guilt, and resolve. "The program, the game, was intended to help me develop my intellectual ability. But Dad cared about more than just results. He wanted me to develop all of the proper analytical methods. So he designed a way to monitor my progress. The backdoor would let him review my accumulated skills.

Danny suddenly laughed - an unexpected response to abruptly recalled memory. "You know, I almost found the backdoor in the game program when I was 11. I was sure it was there but I wasn't a good enough hacker to get past Dad's defense codes." He bowed his head as if the memory of his father had become more than he could bear.

Angela moved beside him, taking his hand in hers.

"He's more than good enough now," she said with a fierce certainty. "From the time we both realized that there was an AI entity in cyberspace based on his old game, he has worked himself to the limits of human endurance. He's found the way into this thing. No other person in the world could have done that."

"All right", John said. " Let's assume you are right. If we open this secret door, can we insert a virus, a countermeasure that will damage the AI entity?"

Danny and Angela simultaneously shook their heads. Obviously, they had discussed this very possibility before and their conclusion was certain. Danny spoke for them both.

"I'm sorry John but we don't think so. We won't be absolutely certain until we actually open the door but all of our research suggests that it will reveal a one-way conduit - an information retrieval portal. It is just not likely that it will accept the insertion of any new data. Dad wanted a means to check on me not to give me a way to modify the game."

John Henry rose to his feet beside his workstation. "Regretfully, I must agree with Mr. Dyson's analysis. I know we have all hoped that it would be possible to disable my brother by this means. I fear it simply will not be possible."

Danny turned to look and John Henry. He had by now fully grasped the fact that John Henry, like Cameron, was a cyborg. He had even come to respect John Henry's sophisticated understanding of cyber research. Still the casual reference to his brother was unsettling.

"It is also likely that we will face another limitation as well. Reviewing Mr. Dyson and Ms. Jessup's research suggests to me that we will not be able to extract information from the backdoor more than once."

If John was disappointed by John Henry's prediction, he hid his feelings. "Why only once?"

"At some point, my brother will realize what is happening. At that moment he will take defensive action. At a minimum he will remove the access point from his programming."

"There are other potential problems as well." Angela joined the discussion, her face set in a determined expression.

"Why am I not surprised by that?" John shook his head wearily. "There are always more problems."

Angela pressed on with her discussion. "When the entity becomes aware of our activity, it will almost certainly engage in what Danny and I have termed a backsurge . It will release a virus of its own that will completely corrupt the accumulated data. We have to break the connection before that occurs or you will lose all that we have gained."

Danny grasped Angela's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "She doesn't want to tell you but that has happened before. We have lost data because I failed to break the link quickly enough."

"Danny, don't…"

"No, they need to know. The thing, the entity… Skynet, John Henry's brother…" The words tumbled from Danny's lips. "It has used an image of my father, it has reproduced his voice. I knew it was all false but I still let it get to me. I allowed it to slow my responses."

"You won't let that happen again will you." John voice virtually growled with authority. His words were not a question but, as everyone in the center immediately understood, an order.

"No", Danny replied. "I won't let it happen again, I promise."

"Then let's get this program going. Even with your limitations we have a chance here for a significant intelligence gain. How soon can you be ready?"

Danny looked inquiringly at Angela. "Five hours?" She nodded in agreement. "Yes, five hours."

"Good. So get to it. Cameron and I want to review some reports with James while you all are setting up. We'll be back before you're ready."

The three of them walked briskly down the long corridor each deeply engrossed in his or her own separate thoughts. Ellison was already focusing on the stack of files in his office. He was certain that John would wish to see them all. He assumed that John was considering the same course. Cameron, however, sensed something else in her husband's silence. She had seen it in his expression from the moment they entered the Gibraltar facility. It was the tunnels again - a renewal of the war he had spent three years fighting in another future. Since their return from that time, John had clung desperately to the hope that humanity could yet be spared that ordeal. The sterile corridors of Gibraltar One seemed to mock that hope. Cameron, more than any other person, could sense the new weight settling inexorably on John's shoulders.

With her enhanced auditory capability she heard the footsteps approaching rapidly from behind before either John or Ellison were aware of them. They all stopped, however, at the sound of the voice.

"John, please wait. I need to speak with you for a moment." As John Henry came trotting up the corridor, Cameron and Ellison turned to face him. John did not. Indeed, he did not even move. He stood in a rigidly stiff posture facing directly away, staring down the hallway in front of him.

"The answer is no, John Henry."

" You do not know my question", John Henry protested.

John still did not turn around. "Yes I do. I saw it on your face when Danny was explaining his plan. You want to be hooked up directly to the computer when the back door opens. You want to do the download directly into your chip."

For a moment, John Henry actually looked surprised.

"John, it is as you said. We have an intelligence opportunity here we may never have again. I can gain unfiltered insight into my brother's plans, his capabilities, his very thought processes."

John spun on his heel and took two quick steps. Now standing almost chest to chest with John Henry, his face bore an expression of frozen implacabability.

"And if the connection is not broken properly in time? If your brother launches countermeasures? You heard what will happen. The data could be corrupted. That would mean you could be destroyed at the same time doesn't it?"

John Henry made no attempt at evasion. "Yes, that is a possibility but Mr. Dyson, Ms. Jessup and I are convinced…"

"I am not convinced!" John snapped. "I am not convinced that I want to risk my most valuable intelligence asset in an operation that uncertain. The answer is NO!"

Before anyone else could speak, John spun around and walked rapidly down the tunnel. Ellison stared in surprise as John turned a corner disappearing from view. He had not even waited for Cameron. For a moment all three appeared uncertain of what should be done next.

"Cameron." John Henry's face bore a look of injured disappointment. "Will you…?"

Cameron raised both hands, palms out, to cut off John Henry's entreaties.

"I know what you want me to do John Henry. Both of you wait here. I will go speak with him."

Before either Ellison or John Henry could respond, Cameron was gone. A graceful jog carried her quickly down the hallway in pursuit of her husband. She did not have to go far, however. Only a few feet beyond the corner, John stood leaning against the wall with both hands resting on the surface, his head bowed, an aura of profound sadness gathered around him.

Cameron did not speak. Instead, she moved behind him wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on the back of the shoulder. They stood silently immobile for nearly 30 seconds before she felt his breathing change. A new spirit of determination was taking hold. He turned and took her face between his hands.

"I have to do it don't I Cameron? I have to let John Henry do as he asks."

"It is your decision. You know that he will do whatever you want."

"What I want?" John's voice grated with a humorless chuckle. "What I want?" He repeated.

"You know what I really want Cameron? I want to tell my best friend not to risk his life. I want to tell my little girls that they don't have to be soldiers. I want to tell my mother that she never has to go out on another dangerous mission again. I want to tell you that I will never risk losing you. I want to tell you that we can live our life together in peace and happiness while we watch our daughters grow up."

He sighed. "I'm John Connor, I can't have any of that can I?"

His voice trailed off into silence as he pulled her firmly against him, as his lips sought the comfort that came from kissing the woman he loved, the only woman he would ever love.

When he finally leaned back away from her, Cameron said. "There are also things you don't want aren't there, John? You don't want to risk your own life every day, but you do. You don't want to bear the responsibility that has become your burden, but you do. You do what you must every minute of every hour of every day. Now you must let the rest of us do what we have to do as well."

Once again he gathered her into his arms. They did not kiss. They stood in a loving embrace letting their bodies speak silently, one to the other. Finally, reluctantly, John stepped away. Reaching down he took Cameron's hand.

"Let's go back and tell John Henry that I have changed my mind."


	17. Chapter 17

Los Angeles, California, Gibraltar One Base, October 25, 2011

John Henry had become the placid eye of the storm. Around him frenetic activities continued with the force of a whirlwind. Sitting in a chair in front of the large bank of monitors, he watched with boundless patience and an enigmatic smile as Danny Dyson adjusted settings, calling out numerical calculations more to himself than to anyone else. A few feet away, Angela's fingers flew over a keyboard as she launched her own independent monitoring and defensive programs. Like Danny, her attention was riveted on the monitors glowing before her. Face registering approval as the data on the screens matched her expectations.

Cameron pushed a small table bearing a silver surgical tray into position behind John Henry's chair. The scalpel, probe and needle nose pliers she would use to access John Henry's chip portal spread out across the metallic surface of the tray. She strained to conceal all signs of fear or concern from her expression. Many years earlier a compassionless equanimity would have been her reality. She could have undertaken the task assigned to her then without any emotional reaction. That time, however, had long passed. Today, she worried.

John Henry had specifically requested that she deal with connecting the computer cable to his chip. She realized instantly that she could not decline. If Catherine had been present it might have been different. Today no one else had her familiarity with chip design. It would be a delicate operation and only she could perform it with a likelihood of success.

So she made her preparations, holding inside all of her concerns, all of her doubts and private turmoil. Looking at John standing on the other side of John Henry's chair, she could tell that he too was battling his own inner furies.

Glowing red numerals on a large digital clock rule fixed to the wall above the computers counted down the seconds as the time marched toward the target. It was 8:57 PM. Initiation was to begin at 9 PM, an inexorable deadline.

John Connor watched the numerals change on the timepiece. For a moment he considered demanding another review of the procedure they were about to undertake. Gritting his teeth he fought off the impulse. Danny, Angela, and John Henry had each explained what was about to happen in precise detail… twice. Stopping the operation for further discussion now would be nothing more than a transparent effort at delay. You made your decision Connor, he thought. Now you have to let it happen.

John Henry was also watching the clock. His voice was calm and determined as he called out to Cameron. "8:58 PM. Establish chip link." John pushed back the urge to countermand John Henry's instructions, to tell Cameron stop what she was now doing with an unerring speed and a delicate touch.

The trace of crimson appeared on Cameron's fingers when she made a quick scalpel incision on the back of John Henry's head. Although he had already seen so much blood, so much death and destruction in his life, John looked away, unable to watch as Cameron completed her task. The long black cord already attached to an outlet on Danny Dyson's computer slipped inside John Henry's cranial cavity and with an audible click connected to his chip.

Cameron voice was gentle but absolutely clear. "8:59 PM. Connection complete."

"Very good", Danny replied. "Access opening in one minute."

"Monitoring and defensive measures operating." Angela called out.

So there it was, John thought. The point of no return. Cameron remained behind John Henry, one small hand resting lightly on his shoulder. John moved directly in front of the seated figure, squatted down and held out his hand. John Henry smiled knowingly as he grasped the proffered comfort.

"Good luck, my friend", John whispered in a whisper audible only to John Henry and Cameron.

"It will go well, John", the gentle cyborg replied." Do not worry. When this is completed we will play chess."

Before John could reply, Danny's voice, now shaking with excited anticipation, rang out. "9 PM. Access portal opening. Now!"

John Henry slammed back in his chair as if he had been struck by a massive fist. His eyes sprang open but his stare passed directly through John, his vision fixed on some distant point in the outer bounds of infinity. Although he did not require oxygen, his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, seemingly gasping for air. John's eyes met Cameron's and they exchanged a quick nod of agreement. Neither had known what effect the link would have on John Henry but they had prepared nevertheless. At a prearranged signal from John, Cameron would disconnect the computer cable and sever the link no matter what Danny and Angela were doing. As he watched John Henry experience what closely resembled a grand mal seizure, John could barely resist the temptation to give Cameron the signal.

Abruptly, the atmosphere changed. John Henry settled back into his chair, closing his eyes with a blissful look of serenity on his face. His only outward reaction to the link now was a silent nodding of his head. For the first time John became conscious of Danny and Angela's voices calling out data readings behind him.

"Data flow at twelve on the Meininger scale." There was an undertone of genuine surprise in Danny's voice – as if he were announcing a phenomenon he had never seen before.

Angela appeared equally amazed. "Did you say twelve?"

"Yes, and increasing."

"No indication of entity awareness, no counter measures indicated. All defensive fire walls in place." Angela called out her report in a tone of measured professionalism but as John turned to look back at her, he saw her trembling with excitement.

"Time since access?" Danny asked.

"3 minutes, 47 seconds", Angela replied.

On the multiple computer screens in front of Danny, images and texts, numerical charts and mathematical equations flashed across the screen with such blinding speed it all coalesced into a blur of flashing light. Angela's four screens were less active. On the first a more precise digital clock recorded the passage of time in fractional seconds, while on the other two slow-moving spreadsheets relayed data on her defensive programs. It was the fourth screen, however, that drew John's attention.

Their best time had been 12 minutes, 6 seconds. When they had explained the program to him, Danny and Angela had agreed that the longest period they had been able to explore the cyber nature of the entity – Skynet before it became aware of them was just over twelve minutes. At that point the back surge of defensive countermeasures became irresistible.

Danny had admitted that there was no guarantee they would have an even that comparatively short time during this process. This time they were tapping into the very core of the entity's knowledge. An awareness of that intrusion might develop much quicker

"5 minutes, 37 seconds", Angela called out.

John glanced back and John Henry who was locked in a pose of Zen like contentment. There was actually a ghost of a smile on his lips. Cameron remained poised in her place beside him, the tools required to cut the link, laid out on the tray within her easy reach.

John turned his attention back to Angela's fourth screen. The image displayed was unusually simple, almost childlike. It was a large circular pie graph at this moment showing a uniform interior color of white.

"You will see the color segments change as the entity perceives our presence", Angela had explained during her earlier briefing. "Initial awareness will show as yellow. As the amount of yellow increases, a dark red segment will follow. That color indicates an attempted back surge, a warning that the entity is seeking to corrupt the acquired data."

"So you would disconnect when you see red on the chart?" John had asked.

"Not necessarily." Angela's pride in her defense of programs had been apparent. "Our fire walls will block the back surge for a period of time before disconnection is required."

"How long a period?"

"It is not easily expressible in time. It is better understood as a percentage. As the portion of the pie chart showing red increases to a certain level, the likelihood of data corruption increases proportionally."

"What is the cutoff point?" John's tone had become aggressively demanding. He had lost interest in scientific theory.

Danny was still struggling with his dismay over an earlier failure. He had answered John's question rather than leaving it to Angela. " When we have done it correctly, we have always disconnected at 30% red. The one time I let the entity corrupt our results, the time I failed to disconnect in a timely fashion, it reached 37%. So I suppose you could say that 34% to 35% is our defensive boundary."

At that point in the briefing John had offered no visible response except to nod his head slightly in agreement. Inwardly, however, his conclusion had been immediate and unequivocal. Regardless of what Danny or Angela believed, when the download to John Henry began they were not going to get anywhere near 30% red.

"Elapsed time?" Danny's query was expressed with a clinical detachment matched by Angela's response. " 7 minutes, 23 seconds. Recognition chart remains white."

"Excellent", Danny replied. Then with a note of restrained excitement, he almost whispered, "Meininger scale at 14, download speed still increasing."

Angela looked at him now in near disbelief. "Danny, that's approaching max speed."

"I know, I know. John Henry's chip is absorbing data at a rate beyond anything we have ever achieved."

John tightly clenched his jaw. The blend of personal pride and scientific detachment embodied in Danny and Angela's exchange somehow angered him even while he realized that his response was completely irrational. They were rattling off numbers, experimental results while a few feet away the procedure was threatening his friend's life. John knew that they could not be expected to understand his bond of friendship with John Henry. That awareness did nothing to lessen his churning emotions.

John Henry remained oblivious all that was occurring. His eyes were closed, his facial features relaxed. To John's examining gaze, he looked placidly content, occasionally nodding his head in silent agreement with some distant voice that only he could hear.

"Elapsed time?"

"10 minutes, 37 seconds."

Suddenly, Angela's voice took on a new timbre, a note of concern. "The perception chart just went yellow – 100% yellow."

For the first time, John intervened with a direct question. "What does that mean?"

"It doesn't happen that quickly. It never happens like that. In our other experiments it always changed color gradually – a sequential recognition."

"So it might go red the same way" John snapped. "All at once, overwhelming your defenses."

Angela looked at Danny shaking her head in confused dismay before answering. "No… I don't think… I mean it never… I just don't know!" There was a trace of hysteria in her voice.

"Then shut it down", John ordered. "Terminate the link, shut it down and disconnect." Spinning around he looked at Cameron. "Do it Cameron, do it."

As Cameron reached forward moving her pliers toward the chip portal, John Henry's eyes sprang wide-open. His hand shot up and grabbed her wrist. "No John", his voice was low and pleading. "Not yet. There's much more information. So much more."

For a moment all movement halted. Without resistance Cameron allowed John Henry to hold back her hand, to keep her fingers away from the connection. John responded to John Henry's pleading expression with a look of anguished concern.

"We have enough John Henry. We can't take any more risk."

John Henry shook his head repeatedly as he pointed and Angela's computer. "There's no red on the chart. Ms. Jessup's defensive measures are holding. There's still so much that we can acquire. You must let me continue."

Cameron was confident that if John ordered her to act, she could pull free of John Henry's hold. Now ,however, like everyone else in the room she was frozen, watching as John struggled with the inescapable burden of responsibility. He turned back to look at the glowing computers screens before again meeting John Henry's gaze. She heard his deep sigh of resignation and the slap of his hands dropping against his legs.

"All right" he growled. " Keep going but I want to hear audible reports on any sign of back surge."

John Henry smiled as he released Cameron's wrist and folded his hands back into his lap. The expression of beatific contentment returned to his face as he once more closed his eyes.

Danny and Angela swung back to their computer screens. Cameron mentally blocked the urge to move to John side, to put her arms around him, to reassure him but her duty remained clear. She had to stay by John Henry, ready to disconnect the cable on John's command. With his decision made , John stood at attention, immobile, his face as impassive as a stone. Cameron could see, however, that his right hand was clenched in a fist so tight that his knuckles were turning a bloodless white.

"12 minutes" Danny called out. "12 minutes, 10 seconds, 15, 20." With each increment that he proclaimed, a tremulous excitement animated his voice. Triumph and a touch of disbelief filled his voice. "13 minutes!"

"Red on the chart!" Angela made no pretense of scientific detachment. "18% red and increasing! Back surge has broken through two fire walls!"

"Disconnect!" John roared. "Cameron!"

The room burst into a kaleidoscope of frantic activity. Only John's standing frozen in his rigid stance looking down at John Henry had nothing to do. Behind him Danny and Angela spun dials, flipped switches as Angela continue to call out the readings on the intrusion chart. "23%, 26%, 28%, 30%!"

John Henry's hands had tightened into a viselike grip on the arms of his chair. His eyes were closed, his lips pressed together as his head rose and fell with increasing speed. He had every appearance of a person experiencing an involuntary convulsion, an uncontrollable shaking of his body.

Cameron's fingers were a blur as she unhooked the tendrils of the computer cable from John Henry's vital chip. Her speed, her precision, far beyond the physical capacity of any human still appeared in John's eyes to be an exercise in agonizing slow-motion. Hurry Cameron, he thought desperately. Hurry.

"33%, 36%", Angela's voice had taken on a clear note of panic. " The last firewall is failing." Then almost simultaneously, Cameron jerked the disconnected cable away from John Henry's head milliseconds before Danny cried out, "Power off – all systems shutdown."

John Henry slumped forward in his chair, motionless, as if all the life, all the vitality had been drawn out of his body. No one else in the room moved. The furious activity of seconds before was replaced by a tableau of statues.

Without turning, John heard Danny speak in a hoarse whisper as he asked Angela the inevitable question. "What was the final back surge percentage?" Angela's response was barely audible. "38%."

Cameron eased around the slumped form of John Henry until she stood beside John. Together they looked down at their friend, silently pleading for some sign of consciousness. Then John knelt on one knee and rested his hand on John Henry's arm.

"John Henry, can you hear me?" When there was no response, no movement in his slumped form, Cameron also knelt in front of the seated figure. "Wake up John Henry, you must wake up now."

In the area in front of the now darkened computer screens Angela slipped over beside Danny wrapping her arms around him as she choked back her tears. The sense of guilt was overwhelming. Her fire walls, her defensive system must have failed and her pain was beyond even Danny's ability to sooth. What had she done wrong?

Abruptly, John's tone changed. He shook John Henry's arm, hard, sending a wave of his own anger into the unresponsive form. "God dammit John Henry,wake up! That's an order, wake up! Only Cameron heard the whisper, the word punctuating the end of John's command, "Please".

The room fell back into a darkly ominous silence and then without warning John Henry simply lifted his head. The abrupt motion caused everyone to flinch. Desire and expectation are different traits. Receiving what you desperately want can still be a shock. John Henry's eyes opened and his gently vulnerable smile crept back across his face. He looked around momentarily as if to reacquaint himself with the familiar world. That he focused his gaze on John who was still grasping his arm.

"I believe that I would like to play chess now."

Angela buried her face in Danny shoulder, her tears now an expression of joy he rather than despair. Danny held her firmly against him as he watched with a sense of bemused wonder the scene of intimate celebration playing out before him. John laughed, a hearty roar of joy as he reached up to place his hand on the back of John Henry's neck. Cameron leaned forward let her head rest against John Henry's side while stretching out with her right arm to embrace John. The smile on John Henry's face broadened as he responded by extending his arms to envelop both John and Cameron.

There was so much to understand, Danny thought. Was the love he felt for the woman in his arms, the mother of his unborn child really all that different from the love the three figures clinging to each other in front of him felt. Did it matter that two of these individuals were not even human? He could only shake his head in wonder. What kind of fight had he Angela joined? Where was John Connor leading them? What were they really fighting for? So many questions, so much to consider.

xxxxxxx

Los Angeles California, Gibraltar One Base, October 26, 2011

His breathing had eased into that rhythmic pattern reflecting a deep peaceful sleep. Cameron lightly touched his forehead brushing back a wisp of his hair before letting her fingers gently trace the line of the scar on his cheek. Not for the first time, she wished she could have been with him that night and shielded him from the bullet that cut his flesh. But she had not been with him then. Reluctantly she had become reconciled to the fact that she would not always be able to prevent harm from touching him. She was determined, however, that as long as she existed she would try to comfort him, to help him carry the burdens that would inevitably fall upon him.

It was dark in the bedroom of this spartan utilitarian apartment that would be their quarters if and when they moved permanently to Gibraltar. Although she did not sleep or need to rest, she had, as she did every night, curled against him and rested her head on his shoulder while he slept. It pleased her when she felt the tension ease away from him as he slipped his arms around her. Although she did not require rest, she did need these minutes of precious intimacy with the man she loved.

The faint glow of the digital clock on the table beside their bed proclaimed it to be 3 AM. Carefully Cameron eased away, avoiding any motion that might awaken him. If she were quick she could do what she wanted now and be back long before he missed her. Standing beside the bed, she took one last look at her sleeping husband before slipping on the robe she had found in the closet. Her nudity did not disturb her and certainly did not bother John but there were other people in the facility. Better to avoid any possible embarrassment.

In the computer center John Henry was sitting in the same position he occupied when she left him four hours earlier. Once again there was a long cable attached to his chip portal linking him to a computer. There was no danger this time, however, since the computer to which he was linked had no Internet connection. It was simply a tool he could employ as he correlated a portion of his newly acquired data into the summary report he had promised John.

Human ears would never have heard the delicate pat of Cameron's bare feet as she tip toed gracefully down the hallway and into the computer center. Despite his intense concentration on his work, John Henry had noted her approach. Without turning from the screen he waited till she had almost reached him before he spoke. "What is the matter Cameron? Are you unable to sleep?"

"I don't sleep John Henry."

He turned his chair to face what could only be described as a delicately beautiful young woman. His smile broadened. "Joke", he said.

She actually chuckled as she pulled out another chair from a nearby workstation and sat down beside him. During the years they had shared the same chip – essentially the same existence, they had taught each other so many things. Perhaps humor had been the best gift they had exchanged.

"How are you doing?" Her voice was low soft and sympathetic.

"I am doing well. The data analysis is proceeding satisfactorily. I will have John's report ready when…"

Cameron held up her palms to interrupt his statement. "That is not what I meant. How are you?"

"I am quite well Cameron. I suffered no damage during the process. You need not be concerned about me."

"John and I will always be concerned about you. You are our friend."

"As you and John are mine." John Henry's voice dropped to an intimate whisper.

Cameron studied him for a long moment before she slowly rose from her chair. She was seemingly preparing to leave when the unspoken question she carried with her finally took form. "Was it worth it John Henry? Was it worth the risk you took? Did we gain enough?"

"It was worth it to me Cameron. I needed to play my part in the fight your husband is leading. Whether the information I have obtained is sufficiently valuable John will ultimately have to decide."

Cameron nodded and turned to walk away. She had almost reached the hallway entrance before she looked back at John Henry and voiced one last question. "Did we gain enough information to stop your brother from initiating Judgment Day? Did you learn how we can avoid the war?"

The humor, the good nature, the innate gentleness faded away from John Henry's face. His expression became one of deep sadness. "No". Without another word he turned away from her to resume his work on his report.

John was still sleeping peacefully – the regular pattern of his breathing still reflected the contentment of deep slumber. She tossed away the robe and lifted the sheet as she eased back onto the bed. Gently she moved against him, flesh meeting warm flesh. He instinctively extended his arm to take her back into his embrace. She responded by sliding even closer until her head once more rested on his shoulder.

My poor love, Cameron thought. You cannot escape your destiny. Neither I nor anyone else can spare you from the burdens you must carry. She raised her head and tilted it forward not so much to actually kiss him as to let her lips brush ever so softly and gently against his. She saw by the faint hint of a smile that somewhere in his dreams he was responding to her presence. 0h John, the road before you is still so long. But I promise you that you will never walk it alone. As long as I exist I will be at your side. Whatever comes we will face it together, always. And then she laid her head down on his shoulder and closed her eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

**Los Angeles California, October 29, 2011**

Inside the chain-link fence the blue clad security detail wandered around the grounds giving the impression of unplanned disorder. No one walked any designated pattern. Except for the two men leaning prominently on the front gate, no one seemed to be focused on any particular area of the enclosed compound. The inattention was an illusion. An experienced eye would have recognized the pattern of exercise yard coverage employed by the inmates of any tough prison. Like some formless creature, the men gathered in groups, split up, and wandered away. Inside a prison compound, no guard or snitch could have moved through the yard unobserved, unreported. Today, the men in the blue coveralls were the guards and they missed nothing.

No one could approach the old nursing home undetected.

So, of course, they saw the kids as they came up the sidewalk. The two girls in tight blue jeans, somewhere around 14 or 15, were clearly enjoying the competitive attempts of three boys to attract their attention while simultaneously barking insults at each other. A younger boy, perhaps no more than 11, trailed the pack, seeking to insert himself into a gathering where he had not been invited. Periodically, one of the older boys would turn and shout something vaguely obscene at the persistent nuisance. On a different occasion, one of the other would-be Romeos tossed a rock in the kid's direction and even took a few quick steps as if intending to give chase. Unintimidated, the boy retreated a few feet before flipping an obscene gesture and resuming his pursuit.

Most of the men in the blue coveralls ignored the moving pageant of teenage hormones. A few wandered closer to the fence to shout gratuitous sexual advice to the girls or to cheer the irritation the younger boy was generating. It became a case of seeing without seeing. Focusing above the surface the men inside the fence missed the subtext. They did not notice that each time one of the older boys tried to chase the younger one, the kids used the delay to take searching glances inside the fence. The guards saw the girls taking pictures of the ongoing comedy with their cell phones but did not notice the quick shots they snapped of the grounds. Worst of all, the guards paid little attention to the tallest of the older boys. More muscular, harder in appearance than the others, his broad grin had a frozen humorless quality. Even when he harangued one of the girls in the most teasing exchange, his stare remained locked over her shoulder at the guards pacing around the building.

The procession gradually moved down the street and out of sight. An hour later the group returned, evidently heading home. The two girls-three boys conflict had resolved itself with each young female strolling arm in arm with her chosen champion. The tall boy with the now faded and disappointed grin walked dejectedly behind the others, grasping the neck of the young boy who had apparently gotten too close. Suddenly, the boy jerked free, spewed out what sounded like rapid fire multiword cursing and then raced away down the sidewalk. Roaring in anger, the tall boy launched his pursuit while his companions stood convulsed with laughter. Once again cell phones appeared in multiple hands to record the image. Or so it appeared to those inside the fence.

John leaned against the hood of the vehicle listening intently to the voices coming from the open cell phone laid before him. He was less than a block away. He knew that at the first sound of distress he could reach the area were the kids were walking in a matter of seconds. That awareness did nothing to ease his discomfort. The knowledge that he had sent these young boys and girls into a potentially dangerous situation burned like acid in his chest.

Logically, it had been the correct decision. John Henry had even reassured him that the plan was sound and that any risk to the young people would be minimal. At that moment, however, rationality offered him no solace. Command required difficult choices. He had made hard decisions before; he knew he would make them again but with each decision he felt a pain that would never quite heal.

"Sounds like they're about done." Emilio Garza spoke in that chillingly calm voice that could express the most deadly intentions with complete equanimity. To John, however, it sounded comforting. Having Emilio at his side along with Manny and Cleo over by the van gave him the confidence that if something did go wrong, he had the firepower to extract his young scouting party from any threat of harm.

"I think you're right. Caesar has them moving this way." The relief in John's voice was unmistakable as was his pride. The boy he had snatched away from a dead end life on the streets was proving his value once again. He would grow into the warrior John had known in another time.

Before Emilio could agree, the sound of running feet proclaimed the arrival of Caesar Delgado's new J Company. John and Garza barely suppressed grins as the band of kids came dashing up in wild disarray before skating to an abrupt stop and lining up behind their young commander.

"How did we do, Jefe?" Caesar had drawn himself into something close to attention, his infectious grin shining under his dark eyes and coal black hair. He's grown up so much, John thought. He isn't even a boy anymore. The maturity in his face was catching up with the gangling frame. Yet there was still a note of youthful insecurity in his voice as he sought the approval of his leader.

"Five by five," John answered with a smile that spread his approval to all the youngsters gathered in front of him. "All of you did great." He stepped over to the youngest boy – the one who had played the intruding nuisance and ruffled the boy's hair. "Especially you, Carlito."

The child was on the verge of bursting with pride. Praise from the Jefe left him blushing and grinning simultaneously.

"We got lots of pictures Jefe", Cesar said. "And we got good looks at every part of the place."

John nodded. "Okay then, let's get loaded up and get out of here. You can tell us about it when we get back to base."

The kids all dashed for the van, pushing and laughing as they piled inside. Did they know, John wondered. Did they really understand how much danger they had been in or did they just think they were playing a game? Caesar reached the van last, shepherding his band of street kids into the vehicle before turning to look at John and flash a quick thumbs-up gesture. As he did so, John glimpsed the small tattoo on Caesar's wrist – the diamond enclosing a red J. Before John could respond, Delgado dove into the van, the door slammed, and the loaded vehicle pulled away.

"You can call your wife now Emilio. Tell her that we're done and on the way in."

Garza was about to grasp the passenger door of the Mercedes John had driven today. He stopped when he heard the undertone in John's voice. There was something unexpected that piqued his curiosity. "Are you not going to call your wife too, John?"

For a moment the expression on John's face had a rueful, somewhat embarrassed, quality. "I don't think so. I'm afraid Cameron is a little unhappy with me right now. You just call Chola and she'll tell Cameron."

Emilio Garza turned his head away to hide a rare smile. From their first meeting, he and John had recognized a similar lethal quality in each other's nature. They were both men of violence, capable of the most deadly response when the need arose. It now appeared that they shared another quality. Neither relished the consequences of angering their wives. As John steered the Mercedes away, Emilio wondered what John had done. At least only one of them was in trouble.

Cameron was not truly angry with John. Despite the evolutionary development of her personality, the ever-growing depth of her emotional nature, she still had her cyborg ability to control her reactions. Anger reflected a loss of that control – something she would not permit. She was not angry. She was concerned, she was disappointed, she was uncertain, she was displeased, but she was not angry… She was furious!

She had felt a genuine sense of pleasure when John told her to contact Chola and order to bring all her people back to Los Angeles. Chola had been her first real human friend. The opportunity to see her and her new son again had instantly made her happy. Helping Chola, Emilio, Caesar, and the rest of the group settle into their quarters in Gibraltar had only enhanced her satisfaction with the turn of events. The opportunity to hold little Mateo on her lap had helped assuage the pain of being separated from her own daughters. Then they had all turned to business. The plan to reconnoiter this new Skynet facility began to take shape. To her shock she found that she was to have no role in it. John was planning an operation without including her. He was going to be in danger without her! And to make it worse, he had summarily dismissed her objections.

"No Cameron, you don't need to be part of this. Emilio and I will take care of everything."

You don't need to be part of this? Didn't he understand by now that she was a part of everything he did – that he was an inseparable part of her? How could he even consider risking his life without her being present. It was simply not acceptable.

Chola leaned back in the chair and unbuttoned her blouse as she prepared offer Mateo his latest meal. Perhaps holding her son to her breast gave her a unique feeling of satisfaction, a sense of order that also heightened her awareness of the emotions of others. It was obvious to her that her friend was not in a similar zone of contentment.

"What is wrong, hermana?"

For a moment Cameron misunderstood the question. Her answer was directed more to herself than to Chola. "Nothing is wrong. All is proceeding according to plan. John Henry is monitoring the communications and he would…"

"No", Chola interrupted. "That isn't what I was asking. What's wrong with you?"

Cameron shook her head. "I am fine. There is nothing…"

"Cameron", Chola again cut into her friend's denial, this time with a determined note of impatience in her voice. "We know each other too well. I can see when something is bothering you, so tell me."

They did know each other too well to lie, Cameron thought. From the first time they had met in a gang-ridden neighborhood in East LA, they each sensed a connection – a sisterhood, form between them. Even after Chola learned precisely what Cameron was, the bond remained unshaken. Now as she looked at her friend whose long black hair hung down her back and whose eyes shone with devotion for the infant nursing at her breast, Cameron understood the Chola would always deserve the truth from her.

"I am concerned that John is conducting this operation without me."

To Cameron's surprise, Chola laughed, an expression of merriment so physical that Mateo wailed as he was momentarily shaken loose from his meal. "Oh Cameron", Chola said with a broad smile. " You think John should take you on every action, every time he goes into a fight?"

"Yes." Cameron thought the answer was obvious.

"Mi hermana, I forget sometimes that you're still learning what it is to be human. You love one man so completely that you don't understand what men are."

As their conversation had proceeded, Cameron had slowly risen to her feet and begun to pace deliberately back and forth. Abruptly, she came to a stop in front of Chola. "In what way do I not understand?"

"That men sometimes feel they need to face risks alone. They need to demonstrate their courage and independence – if only to themselves."

"But to take unnecessary risks, to put yourself in needless danger is not sensible behavior. It is…"

"Stupid." Chola finished the sentence. " Yes, I know. I didn't say that men always make sense. If we are going to love them we must let them follow their nature."

Cameron shook her head in an effort to drive away the confusion Chola had just placed there.

"You must understand that with your John, it is even more important that you let him do what he believes he must do. When we raided that other building, he wouldn't let you walk in front of him, he made you leave while he stayed behind until he was the last one out. He's a leader, he may be THE leader. Most of the time having you with him sustains him. You make him stronger, but if you push that too far you could weaken him. You must not become his crutch. You must let him stand alone when he feels it is necessary.

Cameron looked down without speaking as Chola gently pulled Mateo back into her arms and wiped his small lips with a tissue. There was no response she could make to Chola's statement because Cameron realized the Chola was right. She sat down in the chair beside her friend reaching out her hands. "May I hold him for a while?"

Chola's smile broadened as she passed her son into Cameron's arms. As she tilted her head down to Mateo's face, Chola could see the serenity creep back into her brown eyes.

Ellison wasn't entirely certain whether he was attending a strategy session or a Cub Scout meeting. The three-dimensional mockup of the old nursing home rested in the middle of the table. The young people circling the table were all talking more or less at the same time while gesturing toward the model.

"Two of them. Right here."

"This one paces from the door to the gate and then back."

"Only three cover the back. They gate around there is chained shut with two big padlocks."

John Henry sat at the head of the table nodding encouragingly as the overlapping conversations filled the room. It appeared that his cyborg mental capacity was processing the flood of information without difficulty. To Ellison's surprise, John Connor also seemed to be following the swirling stew of voices. He stood a few feet away, smiling with one hand resting on young Delgado's shoulder.

Finally the room fell quiet as even the most enthusiastic of the kids ran out of something to say. One by one they all turned their heads toward John, waiting expectantly for his reaction.

"You did a great job, all of you. I am proud of you."

Some of the kids blushed while others appeared to glow with pride. Ellison thought that if Caesar Delgado's grin grew in any wider it would split his face.

Ellison heard the approach of footsteps and turned to look at the door. Cameron and Chola who been absent during the chaotic debriefing entered the room. John looked at Chola with a particularly mischievous grin.

"Chola could you spare some of your people to get…" He let his voice drop to a more sonorous tone."… To take the fighters of J Company home?" As he spoke the grin faded away.

James Ellison had long since committed himself wholeheartedly to John Connor's crusade. From that first gathering in the San Francisco mansion, he had accepted the leadership of this young man without hesitation. Still it surprised him to see the impact John's words had on this collection of tough kids from the barrio. Their smiles and grins were replaced with expressions of devotion beyond their years. At that moment Ellison suspected that if John had asked, these children would have charged a machine-gun for him.

The mood changed again after Caesar had led his followers out of the room. With the kids gone, the look on John's face drained of all humor, of any emotion save a chilling determination. One by one they took their seats around the table. All eyes turned toward him as John reached over and took the file folder from a stack in front of John Henry. Opening the file he dealt out 8 x 10 photographs to everyone at the table.

"Look very carefully at that picture," he said grimly. That man might look like just another middle-aged guy on the street but he isn't. You are looking at pure evil."

"Who is he John?" Ellison asked.

"His name is Charles David Fischer. In the future timeline that Cameron and I were in, he was what we called a Gray – a human traitor serving Skynet. Fischer was far more than just a traitor. He was Skynet's prize torturer, its interrogator in chief. This is a man who destroyed minds with the same efficiency the Skynet destroyed lives except that Fischer enjoyed it." John's voice now trembled with obvious loathing.

"He is here now – in this time?"

John Henry had been sitting quietly observing the reaction of the others. Now he stepped in to respond to Ellison's inquiry. "During the download from my brother I acquired the image John has just shown you as well as more precise information about Charles Fischer. After Skynet triumphed in that other future, my brother transported certain assets to this time to assist the version of himself in this existence win another victory – to conquer another world. Charles Fischer was one of those assets."

Ellison looked sharply at John Henry. "_One_ of those assets". There were others besides the man whose portrait lay in front of him. Before he could ask about them John resumed his part of the briefing.

"He's not going to do what he came here for." John gestured toward the model on the table. "This is where Fischer is operating right now. This is his playground. This is where he killed Hector Rios and Joey K." John now looked directly at Ellison." This is where he shredded Agent Auldridge's mind and drove him mad."

Ellison felt a deep pang of regret. He had not particularly liked the obsessively driven FBI agent but he had recognized in the man some of the same unrelenting drive that had once motivated Ellison's own pursuit of Sarah John Connor. Whatever his personal feelings about Auldridge, Ellison did not believe that the man deserved the descent into madness he had seen on a darkened Boston Street. If someone had deliberately done that to Auldridge, he should pay for it.

"What are you planning?"

"I'm going to shut this thing down… Permanently. And I'm going to kill this son of a bitch."

John called it his demon – the dark fury that could make him a warrior or a heartless killer. It resided within him, chained to the walls of his mind. When controlled it gave him strength but if unleashed it took him down dark paths too terrible to contemplate. He realized that, even as he spit out the last words, the others at the table were looking at him with undisguised concern. They had just seen the demon raise its head. Even John Henry looked disturbed.

Then his eyes made contact with Cameron. She was still sitting beside Chola but she was staring directly at him. There was no disapproval, no dismay in her expression. In his mind he could hear her voice, calm soft and comforting. It was a whisper in the wind. "I'm here. I'll always be here." With that awareness John pulled the demon back.

"We cannot allow Skynet to operate a torture chamber right under our noses." His voice was normal now with none of the rasping hatred of a few seconds before. Turning to John Henry, he reached for two more file folders. With a gentle shove he sent one sliding across the table to James Ellison while a second folder landed in front of Emilio and Chola.

Ellison examined the photograph in his file. The image was that of a younger man. Unlike the previous picture this man wore an enigmatic smile. The features were regular, the brown hair neatly combed. He was neither handsome nor ugly. The words that leaped and Ellison's mind was, ordinary. The man in the photo could be anyone.

"I have seen this man before haven't I?"

"Probably, when you were in Boston but he's not a man. He's a cyborg – a Terminator infiltrator. He is the most sophisticated model ever built. He was also sent from one future to assist our Skynet. He goes by the name of Caleb Brontë. I want Zeira Corporation intelligence to find him. Find him, but that is all." John took a deep breath. "This is potentially the most lethal Terminator we have ever seen. When your people find him James, they are not to approach. Notify me immediately."

Emilio and Chola's file contained a number photographs that they had spread out before them like a deck of cards.

"These are from the cell phone photographs Caesar's kids got today. I think we have pictures of everyone in the yard. Do you recognize any of them?"

Chola responded immediately. She pulled out seven photographs and pushed them in John's direction." Emilio and I both know these guys. They're members of a splinter gang called Los Locos.

"The crazies?"

"In this case well named", Emilio answered. They are extremely violent and completely undisciplined. They have angered most of the other groups in East LA including the Crips which is not smart."

Despite the seriousness of the moment, John chuckled. The idea of Emilio Garza of all people criticizing someone as violent amused him. With Emilio, however, it would be the lack of discipline that offended him. Emilio could be as lethal as a poisonous snake but he was always a man who acted in control.

"Chola, tell your people the break time is over. We are all going to be very busy in the next day or two. Let's find some of the people who are pissed off at Los Locos. Enemies of our enemies could be very useful right now."

Sensing that the conference was over everyone rose almost in unison from the table. "I think I will wander over to the computer center and visit Danny and Angela while while I'm down here," Ellison said.

Emilio and Chola gathered up the stack of pictures before turning to walk away in the direction of their quarters. To John's surprise Cameron accompanied them.

"Cameron…" John struggled to decide whether he was going to ask question or make a request. Cameron foreclosed both options.

"I will be back shortly", she said. "I wish to go visit with Chola and Mateo a bit longer." Her smile would have amused Da Vinci. There was enough ambiguity in her expression to motivate a legion of painters. It was more than enough to confuse John.

As the room emptied, John looked at John Henry, still seated in his chair with his usual placid expression. "Do you think she's still angry with me?" She had after all given him that look of silent support when his hold on his emotions had faltered.

"I regard myself as someone with a certain degree of intelligence." John Henry answered.

Understatement, massive understatement, John thought.

"I have the capacity to identify, analyze, and resolve any number of problems. When it involves the nature of the relationship you and Cameron share, I am afraid that I must say…" The grin burst out on John Henry's face like a bright morning sun rising over the horizon. "You are on your own General Connor."

**Los Angeles California, October 30, 2011**

John sat alone at the conference table. The chess pieces arranged into a particularly knotty problem – white to stalemate in six moves-were laid out in front of him. Periodically he looked up from the file he was studying and tried to shift his attention to the chess problem. At least the dilemma on the multi-squared board had a solution. The one posed by the file did not.

John Henry's final summary report reflecting the material gained by Danny Dyson's backdoor had been filled with all types of useful intelligence. It was the last paragraph however- the conclusion that had flung John into a deep depression.

"My brother's determination to conquer all biological life remains unabated. The damage we have done to date has slowed his progress but only marginally. He is prepared to achieve the destruction of human society by whatever means available. If the Judgment Day of other timelines cannot be accomplished by way of a general nuclear conflagration, he will turn to other means – biological warfare, encouragement of mass terrorism, cyber intrusions into the human infrastructure. We must assume that despite our best efforts he will achieve some type of cataclysmic event within the next five years. A full-scale conflict between humanity and my brother is inevitable."

"Inevitable." The word was inevitable. John felt an all-consuming weariness. It would be war – a brutal and terrible conflict he could not prevent. He closed the file and looked again at the chessboard. A switch flipped in his mind and a light blazed on. There was the solution, Queens Knight to D6 – a sacrifice that would lead to the stalemate, to the draw.

Once back in San Francisco when he had played John Henry to an unexpected draw, he experienced something near an epiphany. This Skynet could not be destroyed in its present form but perhaps it could be blocked. Its goals might be frustrated by a never-ending stalemate. He could win by simply not losing.

A draw – a stalemate – a tie. That might work on the chessboard but in the greater arena, that would not be enough. John Henry's report was clear. He had to win. Somehow he would have to find a way to win. He could not escape the challenge and there would be no easy solution. A terrible price in blood and pain would have to be paid. John closed and rubbed his eyes. He felt tired, he felt so very very tired.

His eyes were still closed when the arms gently reached around his neck. He felt the soft press of her body and the electric sensation of her lips against his cheek.

"It's time to come to bed John", she whispered. "There is nothing more you can do here tonight."

Turning in his chair he cupped her cheeks between his hands. Kissing her swept away every other thought, every worry, every doubt that lingered in the corners of his mind. In those moments she became his only reality, the only reason he wanted to live. The moment so consumed him that he was unaware that now he was standing and she was filling his arms.

"I was afraid you were still angry with me", he whispered as he eased back just enough to look into her eyes.

"I was not angry with you. Well, yes, I was angry with you but Chola explained to me why I was wrong."

John could not restrain a sly grin. Something in her serious effort at explanation carried an air of vulnerability." Chola explained it to you?"

"Yes. She told me that I must let you do what you believe is necessary even if I think it is… ill advised."

If it's stupid John thought to himself.

"You must understand something as well John. If you were to be hurt, if you were to be…" She could not say the word. "If that were to happen when I was not with you, I could not bear it. I could not…" Cameron seemed to lose the power of speech. The sheen of moisture in her eyes threw John into a pit of guilt. Her tears were so rare.

He pulled her tightly against him, holding her head against his shoulder as he stroked her hair. He would not lie to her. He could not promise her that her worst fears would never happen. He could only assure her that as long as he lived he would love her. The soft taste blessing of her lips against his told him that for Cameron, that would be enough.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19** **Los Angeles, California November 3, 2011**

John paused at the table outside the heavy metal door and picked up a pair of the earmuffs. There were only a few pairs left so it appeared that the firing range beyond the insulated concrete wall must be fully occupied. That did not surprise him. He had seen the gleam of anticipation in the eyes of Chola's crew when he first demonstrated the heavy pulse rifles. Despite their violent backgrounds, this was a weapon more destructive, more deadly, than any of them had seen before. The opportunity to try one out was irresistible.

He punched the entrance code into the keypad and waited while the massive door swung open. As he stepped into the inner access chamber, the main door silently closed behind him seconds before the inner door to the firing range slid back. The sensory impact, even though expected and muted by the headphones, was still breathtaking. The roar of massed rifle fire thundered throughout the huge enclosure. Fifteen of the twenty firing stations were filled; some were firing individual shots while others were blazing away on full automatic. Targets hanging 200 meters away were being shredded with unrelenting intensity.

Cameron, dressed in jeans and a blue pullover sweater, had tied her hair back in a long ponytail. She walked slowly down the firing line examining each shooter's stance with a sharply critical eye. Occasionally, her gentle touch would adjust an aim or stance.

Though focused on her role within the range, she was instantly aware of John's presence. She turned toward him and smiled. The intuitive connecting sense they shared overcame the blazing cacophony of the guns. She had known he was there.

With a simple, inquisitive spread of his hands John wordlessly asked how the training was going. Cameron nodded approvingly before pointing at one of the firing stations. Caesar Delgado crouched in a kneeling position, the pulse rifle resting on the support beam, was blasting off round after round. The excited tension in his young frame was unmistakable. He's really enjoying himself, John thought. Was that actually a good thing? Should a boy Caesar's age be so focused on becoming a warrior? In better times perhaps not, but with all that lay before them now he needed to gain the skills that might keep him alive. John put aside his doubts and grinned as Caesar slapped a new magazine into his weapon.

Motioning for Cameron to join him, John moved over to the back wall and flipped a switch. Flashing red lights illuminated the range, signaling all to cease-fire. One by one the shooters squeezed off a last round or two before turning back to face the Jefe. Since they had returned to Los Angeles, Chola had replaced Hector and Joey K with Henrique and Antonio Montana, two brothers whose calm and placid outward appearance belied their tough street reputations. Both had quickly been absorbed into the group, accepting their new roles with surprising ease. Under Chola and Emilio's watchful eyes, John Connor's group of killers had regained its full complement. It was a renewed strength they would soon need.

Most laid their rifles down at the firing stations without hesitation and gathered around him. Caesar seemed reluctant to let this fearsome thing out of his grasp. He cradled it for an extra moment before joining the rest of the crew.

Only Emilio Garza had a noticeably different reaction to the end of shooting practice. From their very first meeting, he and John had on some visceral level understood each other. Their friendship had formed around a tacit recognition that even in the most deadly gathering of fighters, they would always be special. John had no difficulty, therefore, in reading Emilio's reaction as he put down his gun. The pulse rifle would never be Emilio's weapon of choice.

There was something of the matador in Emilio's nature. The test of his character - the test of his own devising - required facing an adversary at close range. It was by looking into his opponent's eyes at the moment of decision, when life-and-death were in opposition, that Emilio was most attuned to his lethal persona. Firing from a distance with a rifle had no appeal for him. It said much about where he stood in John Connor's organization that he was willing to put aside his own distaste in pursuit of their greater goals. John understood that and he was grateful.

Cameron also recognized Emilio's reaction to the pulse rifle. More than that, however, she understood the contradictions both he and John carried with them. Fighters, yes, lethal and dangerous, but both remained capable of loving with a near boundless passion. She had seen Emilio's adoring gaze locked on Chola when she held their son in her arms. With John, the depth of his love for her, for their daughters, had become the lodestar of her existence. She could no longer envision a universe in which he felt any other way. Chola's teasing suggestion that she still did not really understand humans might be right. There were quirks in human nature that resisted her attempts at reasoned analysis. That no longer bothered her, however. John provided all the certainty she required.

" Everyone ready to go?" John's voice crackled with an infectious encouragement. He had not really asked a question. He had given them an opportunity to express their enthusiasm.

" Yes!" " Hell yeah!" " Rock 'n roll, Jefe." The voices rolled into one fiery burst of coiled fury. They had hidden long enough.

" You had better be" John responded with a broad grin. " We are on for tomorrow afternoon. You all need to talk to Chola. She'll lay out what you're going to do."

John watched approvingly as the group immediately broke up and began to move towards the door. They are fired up, he thought. That's good. They will all be ready.

He grinned again as Caesar reluctantly trailed the older people out, looking longingly back over his shoulder at the pulse rifle resting inside his firing station. " It will be there tomorrow, Caesar" he said with a chuckle. The boy looked momentarily embarrassed before smiling broadly in response.

" Five by five, Jefe. Five by five."

Now alone in the vast enclosure, the silence enveloped John and Cameron with the same force as the earlier thunder of gunfire. He felt her fingers intertwine with his and the comforting squeeze of her hand. If either of them had any doubts or hesitations about the plan, they were discarded.

"We get this done, Cameron and we can go home." Back to our girls. Neither spoke those last words. They had no need to do so. The thought arose simultaneously in their minds.

**Los Angeles California November 4, 2011**

The plaque on the door still bore the deceptively banal designation "Examination room." It remained appropriate, Fischer thought. In that room he regularly examined the core of human nature. The appropriate application of pain, drugs, and terror opened the human mind to inquiry, to manipulation, to domination. It was a project of never ending satisfaction.

It had been an interesting afternoon. The subject sprawled unconscious on the hospital gurney being wheeled away by two of his white clad assistants had proven unusually challenging. The man was ex-military and his sense of self-discipline had been strong. Nevertheless, Fischer smiled at the thought that one or two more sessions would break all his remaining resolve.

It was almost 3:30 PM. Time to transcribe his notes, do one last review of the other subjects restrained in the patient's rooms before considering dinner. His routine had become comfortable.

Edward, his terminator guardian dropped into step two paces behind. They had nearly reached Fischer's office when a raucous cacophony of conflicting noises suddenly shattered the calm of Fischer's domain. The booming sounds possessed numerous components - some parts had musical characteristics or at least competing rhythms played at maximum volume. Those dissonant tones were punctuated by the screech of automobile horns and the shouts of male voices yelling insults and obscenities.

" What the hell is going on?", Fischer wondered aloud as he pulled aside a curtain to peer outside. His blue clad security force was rapidly congregating toward the front of the nursing home. Outside the surrounding chain-link fence, the street was filling with vehicles: pickup trucks with garishly painted designs on the doors, the bouncing low riders favored by LA gangs, and battered old convertibles filled with hard looking young men.

His security force - hired from the worst of the LA gang scene were rapidly becoming outnumbered by this unexpected mob. From the tension apparent in their body language, Fischer could tell that his men were completely aware of that unpleasant situation.

Two hundred feet away, crouched behind an overgrown row of hedges, Emilio smiled with a grim satisfaction while the drama unfolded. As he had expected, Los Locos had pissed off enough people to make assembling the threatening crowd ridiculously easy. A loose confederation of Crips, Latin Brothers, and East LA Rangers had temporarily put aside their own antagonisms to concentrate on their common enemies.

For now it looked like a standoff. The new arrivals were lining up along the fence, glaring and shouting at the men in the blue overalls. For their part, the Los Locos were edging back towards the building concentrating their numbers in an effort to look resolute. Beads of perspiration gleaming in the afternoon sun, a quick gulp for air, a nervous tic suggested that not all of them were achieving their desired tough image.

" I think we need to stir the pot." Emilio looked down at his kneeling companion who held one of the new rifles pressed against his shoulder. " The one nearest the door, Carlos." Emilio pronounced a death sentence in a calm modulated voice.

In that fatal moment when a chillingly tense confrontation bursts into open conflict, it rarely matters who fires the first shot. That first round ignites the conflagration. In some ways the participants are actually relieved. The potential has become actual and only the battle then matters. The single round from Carlos's rifle struck the figure in blue squarely in the chest driving his body back against the building. Within seconds the roar of gunfire shattered the last vestiges of the peaceful autumn afternoon.

Emilio nodded in approval as the battle erupted. The Locos were running for cover while the gang members gathered outside the fence returned fire before driving a pickup truck through the front gate. Fury had been unleashed and it would soon consume many of those around the old nursing home.

" Let's go", Emilio ordered. " The cops will be here soon. We've done our part."

Inside the building, Fischer instantly grasped the situation with the instinct for self-preservation of a feral animal. His little kingdom was about to come crashing down. The most important thing was to be gone when that happened.

" Evacuation, Edward" he snapped as he dashed down the hall toward his office. The terminator acted with equal dispatch. The procedure for immediate flight was fully ingrained in his programming. He paused only long enough to pick out four of Fischer's white clad assistants. It did not matter which four - the brainwashing technique had stripped away any individuality they had once possessed. They were now as interchangeable as unprogramed cyborgs.

In the office Fischer quickly gathered up his laptop computer - the repository of all of his notes and flipped on the arming switch for the incendiary explosives lined against the far wall. After he was safely away, the explosion would set the building ablaze and seal off his escape hatch. Those subjects restrained in the patient rooms and his remaining mentally conditioned assistants would, of course, not survive. That eventuality did not trouble him. The adage was correct. Making omelettes required the breaking of eggs.

The sound of gunfire was growing louder. The fighting must be getting closer to the building. In the distance a faint wail of sirens suggested that the LAPD was about to enter the fray. It was time to leave.

" If you will, Edward." Fischer gestured toward the steel ring set into the floor of the adjoining closet. The cyborg jerked on the fixture and a hole opened on the floor. The key to survival was insuring an escape route. It was a lesson Fischer had learned long ago.

His four dull eyed servants went down the hole first. Each clutched a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other. They would serve as pathfinders lighting his way through the underground caverns to the place where a well-stocked vehicle awaited him. Grasping Edward's hand, Fischer allowed himself to be lowered down and seconds later the terminator joined him. Fischer glanced at the illuminated dial on his watch. Forty seconds until detonation.

The tunnel had once been a water and sewage conduit for this part of the city but it had been abandoned when improved facilities were built further west. The smell of rotting decay filled Fischer's nostrils as he splashed through the puddles of standing water that seeped in from above. Seventy five yards further on it would connect with a more recently constructed utility line. Then a little more than a quarter of a mile along that passage they would reach a street access portal. The car - the final component of his escape - waited there.

The cement beneath his feet shuddered and flaking debris rained down from the low ceiling as the roar of the explosion raced down the tunnel. Behind him a major portion of his previous domain was now a flaming inferno. There were probably screams of those dying in that horror but he did not hear them. No one could follow him now.

They soon reached the newer tunnels. He could stand erect while the sour smell of decay faded away. The flashlights of his escorts provided the only illumination but it was sufficient to guide his steps. Clutching his laptop under his arm, hearing the comforting stride of his cyborg protector behind him, Fischer allowed himself to feel triumphant. All he had lost could be rebuilt. He would survive as he always did.

The tunnel opened into a wide enclave as it forked into two passageways. One led directly downtown while the other inclined back toward the East. It was down that last passageway that Fischer's escort now let him.

" How much further Edward?"

" Approximately 175 yards", the cyborg responded. They were almost out.

The crash of gunfire bursting out of the darkness ahead was as stunning as lightning from a cloudless sky. The four flashlight bearers went down almost simultaneously. They died so abruptly that they had no time to scream. Fischer flattened himself against the concrete wall in shock as the tunnel went dark. Only one flashlight rolling on the floor where it had been dropped still flashed errant beams.

" Withdraw", Edward mechanical voice commanded as he drew his pistol and fired into the blackness. Fischer's sense of self-preservation reasserted itself and he stumbled frantically back down the tunnel. Edward was still firing as he followed, covering his master's retreat.

This was not possible Fischer told himself. No one but he knew about this escape route. How could someone be waiting for him? His stomach twisted with fear as he realized the truth. This had not been some unexpected consequence of his security force's gang enemies. This had been a planned attack aimed at… at him.

"They will pursue", Edward announced. He unfastened a flashlight from his belt and handed it to Fischer. "We must return to the tunnel fork and proceed in another direction." Numb with shock, Fischer followed the terminator's instruction.

In the green haze produced by the night vision goggles, John saw Cameron nod as he motioned for her to move forward. In her dark leather outfit with her hair pinned up in a ballet dancer's tight bun she was almost invisible to the naked eye. Keeping contact with the inner wall, she moved as silently as a shadow. Pressed against the outer wall, John matched her stride. He could make out the intersection ahead. When they reached it, he would swing out to the front while she covered him. Each move was already choreographed his mind.

There was another thought lurking in his mind as well - one that was much less satisfactory. It was the gnawing suspicion that all of this was a mistake. Going into the tunnels was unnecessary. Every exit for a two-mile radius was covered. John Henry's intel had revealed the details of Fischer's escape plan. All they needed to do was wait for Skynet's torturer to crawl out of his hole. And yet he had been unable to do that. A compulsion he could not explain demanded that he face Fischer and his protectors head on. It was not enough that the monster die. John Connor must kill him.

He and Cameron were less than two feet from the tunnel intersection. There was no sign of light ahead and no hurried footsteps scraping on concrete. Fischer and his one remaining protector must've hurried further on.

"John, stop!" Cameron's enhanced hearing had detected what John had not - the faint crackle of electric current just ahead. Before he could react she leaped forward spinning to face what was hiding behind the corner, swinging her pulse rifle to face the threat she alone had sensed.

It was frozen in John's mind as a moment of horror. The shape lunged like a panther out of the blackness extending a snakelike cable with a sparkle flashing from its head. The cable struck Cameron in the stomach, the force of the current hurling her small body backward, crashing against the concrete wall before sliding to the floor motionless.

How many shocks can the human psyche endure before it unravels? John's roar of rage expressed both a devastated heart and a homicidal fury. He dove forward, rolling on his shoulder before popping up into a kneeling position searching for his quarry in the dark. A male figure was less than ten feet away dropping the electric cable that had struck Cameron while drawing a pistol from his belt.

Two bursts from John's rifle struck the man squarely in the chest throwing him against the far wall. Dead, John thought as he scanned the area for another target. Surely dead. Only he was not.

The figure's eyes glowed red as he righted himself and drew his pistol. The one remaining series 5 terminator, John recognized that reality even as the pistol shots rang out and the terminator moved toward him. The force of the pulse rifle had as expected knocked the cyborg back but the rounds had missed any critical points. As the distance between them closed, John instinctively shifted his aim to the cyborg's head. But even as he fired, the burning pain of the pistol round ripped into his right leg. Only his fierce will kept him upright.

The terminator threw aside the now empty pistol and was reaching out a grasping hand towards John's throat when three rounds from the pulse rifle smashed into its head. The impact of the explosive shells shattered the metallic skull and destroyed the controlling chip. In all ways that mattered, the cyborg was dead but the last remaining cyber signals still moved through its torso. It staggered forward, a headless apparition, waving its unguided arms toward an unseen target.

As he tried to step away from the cyborg's death throes, John's wounded leg gave way. Falling to the floor, his rifle slipped out of his grasp as he futilely attempted to retain his balance. Sprawled on the concrete surface he was reaching out for his weapon when the shoe slammed down pinning his right hand to the floor. Light - harsh and blinding - forced him to blink as a hand jerked off his night vision goggles. Someone was standing above aiming the blinding beams of a high-powered flashlight directly into his eyes.

A male voice chuckled, a sour yet triumphant expression of delight. " Well, well, well. Unless I am mistaken, it is the famous John Connor himself."

The weight of the foot pressing hard locked his right hand in place. Lifting his left, he shielded his eyes from the beam until he could make out the figure behind the light, an owlish looking middle-aged man with glasses and a sparse goatee. Only the gun in his hand pointed to John's head gave form to the image of malevolent evil.

" And you are Charles Fischer." John spat out the words gritting his teeth as the throbbing pain in his leg surged through his body.

"Very good", Fischer replied." You are quite perceptive, particularly given your present situation. I can see why my leader believes that you might be a troublesome adversary."

Fischer leaned forward pressing his foot harder into John's hand. He was rewarded with a quickly suppressed gasp of pain. " That hurt did it not? Not as much of the bullet in your leg perhaps but it was still painful." That thought seemed to amuse Fischer and the smile on his face broadened.

" Pain can be a useful tool in exploring the human psyche. Did you know that? I regret that time and circumstances will not allow us to explore that concept together. You and I could have had such interesting conversations."

He actually does sound a bit disappointed, John thought. He really would like to torture me, to break me. Well screw that.

" You know it's not going to do any good to kill me. You still won't get out of these tunnels alive. There are people waiting for you." John put all his defiance, all his contempt, all his rage into his words. If he were going to die here, it would not be a weak and whining death.

" You underestimate me, Mr. Connor. I have a well-developed talent for survival. People like you have tried to kill me for years and have always failed. Just as you have failed. As for killing you, my leader will be quite pleased that I have removed one more impediment in his path to victory."

Fischer straightened up. With one hand he turned the flashlight toward his face while aiming the pistol at John's forehead with the other. " Look at me, Mr. Connor. Let your last thoughts be of me. Know that I am the one who ended…"

Fischer's measured cadence, his victorious tone was interrupted by a scream, his scream. Looking down in stunned disbelief, he saw the knife buried in the biceps of his right arm. The pistol slipped from his hand as he staggered backward clawing at this burning pain.

Cameron's chip rebooted after the electrical surge in separate and discrete increments rather than all at once. She could hear the words spoken by John and Fischer before she could move. The meaning was clear to her ,however. Fischer meant to kill John in the next few moments. Still trying to compensate for the fierce pain in her stomach where the electric cable had burned through her jacket, she forced her arms, her hands to move. Drawing the knife from her pocket, she flipped open the blade and hurled it at Fischer with all her returning strength.

With the crushing pressure removed from his right hand, John grabbed Fischer's pistol that had clattered to the floor beside him. His erstwhile tormentor had also dropped the flashlight that now rolled about on the floor sporadically illuminating the changed confrontation. Trying to staunch the flow of blood as he pulled the knife free, Fischer turned to flee back down the tunnel. The gunshot splintering the cement wall in front of brought him to an abrupt halt.

" Stop right there", John snapped. " Turn around. Get on your knees, now!"

He was struggling to pull himself upright, fighting the waves of pain from his leg when he felt the arm around his waist. Gently, Cameron lifted him onto his feet supporting him with her body.

" You are hurt John. Your leg is bleeding badly. I must apply a tourniquet."

For long moment, John forgot everything but the strength and softness of Cameron's embrace. Stupid, stupid, he thought. He had risked losing her needlessly. It was a mistake he resolved never to make again.

" I'm all right," he whispered. " We have something else to do first."

Fischer's mind raced for alternatives as he watched Connor supported by the surprisingly delicate young woman limp toward him. Stunned by the reversal of fortune, even the pain in his arm became secondary to a frantic search for a way to stay alive.

" You don't want to kill me, Connor." He tried to sound confident.

" I don't?" John sneered.

" No, no you don't. I can be much more valuable to you alive. I have served Skynet for years. I know its capabilities, its plans. I can be useful to your resistance."

From the blank expression on Connor's face Fischer thought he might've opened the door. " I can serve you in many ways that would significantly benefit your efforts. I have skills. You know that. You only need to let me live."

" So you're volunteering to betray Skynet and serve as my interrogator, my torturer?"

He was considering it. Fischer was certain of that. He could still be convinced. For a moment Fischer's pride in his own talents for metal manipulation surfaced. " Yes! Yes!, If that is what you want. I'll do anything you ask."

To Fischer's surprise the response to his suggestion came not from Connor but from the young woman at his side. Her voice had a solemn funereal tone. In her words there was no room for argument.

" I do not believe that John will accept your offer."

Fischer looked desperately at her then at Connor whose expression remained unreadable.

" My husband does not bargain with men like you."

Fischer's response died unspoken in his throat. The echo of a single pistol shot echoed down the long tunnels.

" Did you hear that?" Caesar tried to sound mature and composed but the excitement in his young voice was beyond his control. He leaned across the hood of the car and aimed his rifle at the circular metal plate that covered the opening to the utility tunnels. The Jefe's instructions rang in his mind. "If anything comes out of those tunnels except Cameron and me, you blast it to pieces. Don't wait, don't hesitate."

" Be cool, guapo." Manny spoke in a soft whisper. He was at the rear of the car resting his rifle on the trunk. " I heard it. Get ready."

Still pumped with pride that John had included him in the operation, Caesar took a deep breath as he tried to imitate Manny's rocklike poise. Cool, he thought, be cool. That was hard, however, as the sound of scraping metal became more and more obvious. Someone was moving aside the access plate. Someone or something was coming out of the tunnels. His fingers tightened on the trigger of his rifle.

Steel crashed against cement as the metal cover literally flew off the tunnel access. Seconds later Cameron's head appeared as she climbed out grasping John's hand and pulled him up behind her.

He was hurt! They were both wounded! Caesar could see the dark crimson stains that covered the right leg of John's jeans. A tourniquet was holding but only barely. The Jefe's face was as pale as a ghost. Cameron looked shaken as well with a scorched burn marks and seeping blood on her stomach. Dropping his rifle Caesar ran to help.

John had made it to his feet, his arm around Cameron shoulder when he felt Caesar's arm lift his other side. He looked down at young Delgado's anguished face and smiled through the pain. "Don't worry kid, we are better than we look."

" Call Chola." Cameron took control." Tell her it's done and that we are coming in. Tell her that John needs immediate medical attention."

Manny nodded as he quickly retrieved a cell phone from his pocket. Moments later the car burned a long dark streak of rubber on the pavement as it sped away.

In the backseat, John fought off the urge to slip into unconsciousness. He could see the trembling concern in Cameron's eyes. She needed to know, she needed to be reassured that he was all right. He shoved the pain in his leg to the back of his mind as he took her face in his hands.

" I'm sorry Cameron", he whispered.

She looked confused. " Sorry for what John?"

" For getting you hurt, for causing you so much pain." And for letting you see one more time the darkest part of my nature, he thought.

" We were together." Cameron leaned forward until her lips brushed against his ear so that only he would hear her words. " That's all I asked. Nothing can ever really hurt me as long as you and I are together."

John wrapped his arms around her, letting her head rest on his chest. Clinging together, they offered each other their own special solace as the car raced through the LA streets back to sanctuary.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20** **Russell island, British Columbia, December 23, 2011**

The heavy snow had fallen earlier in the week blanketing the island with the full force of winter. Last night's light dusting of white had merely been nature touching up the flaws in its earlier creation. The icy crystals coating the trees, the touch of mist rising from the ground combined to shape the image of an enchanted kingdom filled with wonder and mystery. Or perhaps it only appeared that way because Christmas was approaching.

Marissa and Savannah had already scouted the area. Bundled up in their thick coats, hats, scarves, gloves, and boots, the two girls bounded through snow up to their knees with the deft assurance of experienced explorers. They knew where they were going and they led the way with a near giddy sense of excitement. John relished the aura of childish joy still intact despite the events of the last year.

"Come on Daddy, Mommy, we are almost there." Marissa's voice rang with both affection and a tiny bit of impatience. Why did these adults keep lagging behind?

John and Cameron each had a hand on the rope attached to the long wooden sled they were pulling behind them. Cameron was providing most of the actual pulling force while John used the long wooden staff in his right hand to support his progress through the snow.

He really shouldn't be doing this, Cameron thought. The leg was doing reasonably well but this type of physical exertion was placing far too much strain on his wound. Still, she had not tried to dissuade him. He had promised the girls that they would all go and cut down the Christmas tree they had chosen. Nothing was going to prevent him from carrying out his promise. As Chola had told her, sometimes she just had to let John be John.

At least she could concentrate most of her attention on helping him. Sarah, in her best grandmotherly tone, had decreed that it was too cold for Allison to join in the tree hunting expedition. That meant that her youngest daughter was back at the lodge playing with Sydney under Sarah's watchful eye instead of falling off the sled or trying to make her own way through the snow. Babysitters were a valuable human invention Cameron decided.

"There it is, there it is Daddy!" Marissa could barely contain her joy as she dashed the last few steps to the tree she and Savannah has selected. Running beside her best friend, Savannah was clapping her gloved hands in vigorous agreement.

John looked at the two girls now pointing in unison at a huge snow-covered pine. He sneaked a quick glance at Cameron who smiled knowingly in return. She did not need to say the words. They were already in his mind. You should have expected this, John.

Using his staff to punch through the crust of snow while hiding his limp from the girls as much as possible, John moved forward until he stood by their tree. "Girls", he said "that thing has to be at least 10 feet tall."

"Yeah, isn't it great?" If John had been trying to suggest some hesitation about their selection, neither Savannah nor Marissa heard it. "Won't it look beautiful in the living room?"

"I only hope you guys have made enough decorations," he sighed in resignation. "Cameron, hand me the axe."

It was time to be creative, Cameron thought. There was no way John could stand on his injured leg and swing an axe with enough force to cut through this huge tree. She needed to devise an alternative, quickly. She reached down and picked up the two handled crosscut saw lying on the sled beside the axe.

"John, why don't you unravel the ropes we need to tie the tree to the sled? Let the girls and me cut it down together."

Marissa and Savannah squealed in agreement with Cameron's suggestion. John turned slightly so the girls wouldn't see him mouth words, "evil woman," to Cameron. Her response was an expression of such disingenuous innocence that John almost laughed aloud.

" All right," he said as he moved back to the sled." You lumberjacks get busy."

John grinned in appreciation of Cameron's subtlety. She stationed the girls on one side of the tree, both grasping the handle of the large saw while she took up her position on the other side. As the sharpened blade began to slice through the tree trunk, she left just enough resistance on the girls' side so they felt as if they were really cutting down their perfect Christmas tree.

A sharp crackling sound rang out in the frigid air as the tree began to topple. With all of her usual grace Cameron quickly moved the girls back away while giving the tree a quick unobtrusive push.

"Timber!" John called out as he also stepped out of the path of the falling pine. The tree landed with near-perfect precision right beside the sled that would transport it back to the lodge. Nicely done, my love, John thought. Just as I expected.

They all four gathered around to lift the tree onto the sled. Cameron, of course, did most of the lifting. "I hope we can get this thing through the front door," John said with a chuckle as he looped the ropes around the tree securing its place on the wooden sled.

He was answered by the rumbling growl of an airplane engine. They all looked up simultaneously at the sight of the approaching sea plane. John Henry was back from Vancouver with their holiday guests. It would be Emilio, Chola, their son Matteo, and Caesar Delgado on this flight. He was still slightly disappointed that James Ellison and his family were not coming but he understood the reason. Tarissa had not been able to assemble her family for so very long that she did not want to share this unexpected opportunity with anyone. She was probably right, John thought. Nobody understood the uncertainties of life as well as she did. She deserves a chance to have a quiet private holiday with those she loved. You deserve it too, James.

"If we need help, there are reinforcements on the way," Cameron said.

"Then let's go meet them," John answered as he joined her in taking up the pull rope. He leaned for a moment on his staff, catching his breath before the little parade started its progress home. Cameron reached over to give his hand a quick squeeze before deploying her strength to drive the sled forward. Walking on each side of the fallen tree, Marissa and Savannah broke out in song. "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way." Cameron joined them on the second chorus followed by John - off key as usual.

Not surprisingly, Catherine heard the distant beat of the airplane engine long before anyone else in the lodge. She saw no reason to mention it, however. Sarah, humming under her breath, was busily engaged in attaching red ribbon decorations to the stairs. Lauren was sitting on the floor her legs folded under her Indian fashion, cutting out stars and bells from a sheet of thin cardboard. Allison and Sydney giggled happily as they more or less painted each of Lauren's creations. Catherine noted that as much paint seemed to go on the two children as on the shapes intended to be ornaments on the tree.

She calculated that it would be at least 10 more minutes before the plane landed and their guests arrived. There is no reason to interrupt the pre-Christmas activities in progress particularly when everyone seemed so happily involved. The fact that this circle of contentment included Sarah surprised Catherine somewhat. Sarah Connor rarely allowed herself to lower her emotional guard so completely. Catherine realized, however, that it was her own response that had left her even more surprised.

John's announcement that they were going to celebrate Christmas with all the traditional attributes including a fully decorated Christmas tree had at first seemed illogical to her. If, as General Connor had indicated, he intended to move them all into the Gibraltar complex by the first of the year, than time spent on some human social festival surely was a wasteful distraction. Yet as the holiday preparations were being made and she found herself actually participating, her opinion changed.

She had gone for an enjoyable walk in the snow with Savannah to see the tree that her daughter and Marissa had picked out. She found herself researching holiday food recipes on her computer when she should have been reviewing Zeira Corporation matters. She had not exchanged a cross word with Sarah in nearly three days - an unprecedented circumstance. Reluctantly, Catherine concluded that the human concept of Christmas spirit had an infectious quality for which even she had no immunity.

Caesar gasped as he stepped out of the plane and onto the wooden dock. That incredibly frigid breeze blowing off the water seemed to slice right through him . After living all of his young life in Southern California, he had not particularly liked the chilly fog bound atmosphere of San Francisco. Compared to what he was feeling now, however, San Francisco was a tropical paradise. Even bundled in an unfamiliar winter coat, hat, and gloves he had never felt so cold in his entire life.

From the pained expression on his face, Emilio appeared to be reacting in a similar fashion. Only the Jefaza who climbed out of the plane with her husband's steadying hands, holding her son tightly in her arms appeared undisturbed. From her broad smile she actually looked pleased to have arrived in this icebox.

"Welcome to Russell Island." Caesar turned to see the Jefe's mother hurrying down the dock. "Merry Christmas."

As Sarah embraced Chola, she could see the undisguised discomfort in Emilio and Caesar's expressions. It would probably be better, she decided, to get everyone up to the lodge without further pleasantries. "Let's all get out of the cold. John Henry, can you bring their luggage up?"

John Henry's smile had all of its usual gentle warmth. "Yes, of course," he replied. "As soon as I secure the aircraft."

As she led them up the path, Sarah grinned when she heard the men's teeth chattering in the cold. She leaned over and whispered in Chola's ear. Stronger sex? Hah."

Caesar blinked in surprise. She had cut her hair. All of his unspoken complaints about the cold, his nervousness about his first time in an airplane, even his youthful pride in being invited to the Jefe's house all vanished. When he saw her sitting on the floor with her little sister and the Jefe's youngest daughter smiling in welcome, the only thought he could hold his mind was his joy in seeing her again.

Some of the guys in the crew had teased him unmercifully about his past romantic exploits. In fact it had been easy for him. The darkly sensual appearance he had achieved since he turned 15 had made female companionship a readily available commodity. He had moved easily from one girlfriend to another.

From his first sight of Lauren Fields, however, it had been different. The tired young woman whose purse he had retrieved from a would-be thief on a San Francisco street touched his heart in a way he had never before experienced. Finding her again had become a driving priority for him. Then when John included him in the rescue operation that saved her from the things trying to kill her, it seemed as if fate itself had played a hand. Surely, he was meant to be with her. Except, soon after the rescue she had disappeared again, this time under John Connor's protection.

Watching her rise from the floor, her face glowing with a welcoming smile enhanced by the elfin charm of her new hairstyle, Caesar felt his throat go dry. It only worsened as she held out her hand to him.

"It is Caesar isn't it?" She looked so carefree, the worry lines he had first seen around her eyes were gone. With the smoothly practiced style of a born womanizer he took her hand in his as he answered.

"Gog a luk it summa?"

Caesar blushed when he saw her smile widen. He knew that she could feel his hand tremble when it touched hers. To make it even worse he could see Emilio grinning broadly at him. He would never live this down.

The sound of footsteps pounding across the outside porch spared him further humiliation. The door swung open and a rush of people of all sizes poured into the room. John, Cameron, Marissa and Savannah arrived just at John Henry came up from the plane loaded down with multiple suitcases. Greetings, embraces, laughter all allowed Caesar to slide into a less noticeable role. He remained, however, unable to tear his eyes off Lauren.

John's voice boomed out over the tumult. "I'm glad everyone is here. We need help setting up this monster." A loud cheer arose from the children, even from Allison and Sydney who were not completely sure what they were cheering about. Little Matteo, snugly held until in his mother's arms also bellowed out a yell. If everyone else was going to make noise so was he.

As John had expected the tree soon filled an entire corner of the lodge's immense living room. It proved even larger than it had looked outside. There was a distinct advantage in having a family with three cyborgs in it he thought. There were few physical tasks that could not be performed effortlessly. He happily settled into a supervisory capacity, limiting his participation to occasional words of encouragement and a quiet observation that the tree needed to be moved slightly to the left. When he saw Cameron turn toward him shaking her head as she smiled lovingly, he realized that he was being largely ignored. Oh well, he thought, a good officer knows when to delegate authority.

"How's the leg, John?"

Emilio had edged quietly up beside him as he sat, stretching out his right leg before him. Of course Emilio was always quiet. It would probably take a conscious effort for him to be noisy.

"It's coming along," John replied. "Just a little soreness now - nothing to worry about."

Emilio kept his expression noncommittal but he had seen and, in many instances, inflicted too many bullet wounds to take John's casual words at face value. The bullet had struck his right leg just above the knee. A few inches lower and it would've shattered his kneecap. A few inches higher, it might have severed the femoral artery causing him to bleed to death. There were no trivial bullet wounds but John wanted to pretend that this was one and Emilio was ready to let him pretend - a bit of professional courtesy as well as an act of friendship.

John Henry teetered at the top of the tall step ladder attaching the homemade ornaments and long strands of strung popcorn as they were passed up to him. Circling the tree Cameron and Lauren tried with limited success to contain the excitement of four children all intent on finding a place for still another ornament. Even Matteo, safely encompassed in his Chola's arms, looked wide-eyed at the multi-colored pyramid taking shape before him. John leaned back in his chair taking in the scene with a feeling of absolute contentment before a disturbing thought suddenly occurred to him. Neither his mother nor Catherine were in the room. That meant they might both be in the kitchen… together… alone. War might be imminent.

Then he sighed in relief as a familiar hand reassuringly rested on his shoulder. "How does your leg feel after your expedition?"

"I am fine, mom. Why does everyone keep asking me that? I'm getting better. It hardly hurts at all anymore."

Sarah shook her head as she sat down beside him leaving her hand on her son's arm. "We Connors are such good liars aren't we?"

" We have had a lot of practice," John replied, patting his mother's hand. "But I'm telling you the truth now. My leg is fine."

Sarah almost certainly had a rejoinder but before she could express it, a brown haired little girl came dashing up to her, proudly holding up the ornament she had painted herself. "Thara,come help, please."

Saved by the bell, John thought. The one thing Sarah could not refuse was a request, any request, by her littlest granddaughter. She was still shaking her head at John, but Allison had her attention now. The child was pulling her unresistingly toward the tree, pointing to the precise spot where she wanted her special ornament to be placed.

In all those desperate years he and Sarah had been on the run, he had never had a Christmas - not a real one - with a tree, presents, friends, and lights. When he was eight he had set up a small tree - little more than a branch really - in the rude shack where they were staying. But then they had to flee one more time before he could put on anything resembling a declaration.

Who knew what was coming for them all? Even John Henry's search of his brother's mind could not answer that question. One thing was certain, however. His children, his friends, his family would have at least one memory of a true Christmas. If the world turned as dark as he feared, they would still have that one shining recollection to sustain them. That memory should include him too, he thought, as he rose from his chair, gritting his teeth when a sharp spasm of pain went through his leg. Okay, so I lied, he quietly admitted to himself.

**Russell Island, British Columbia, December 24, 2011**

There is a unique magic to Christmas Eve that almost transcends the big day itself. Anticipation, expectation, imagination all filled the minds of children sneaking glances at the brightly wrapped packages under the tree. As the two eldest, Marissa and Savannah tried with a mixed degree of success to display a grown-up detachment. Sydney and Allison made no such effort. Both had to be deterred on more than one occasion from a premature assault on the treasures awaiting them.

Throughout the day trays of food, cakes and cookies emerged from the kitchen and filled the sideboard in the dining room. John had no idea who was in control behind the kitchen door. He thought it prudent not to inquire. Cameron, Lauren, even Chola passed in and out of the room but as cliché as it might seem, the males all left that area undisturbed- a bastion of femininity.

"Excuse me, Miss Fields but I believe that is mistletoe." John Henry's voice had a teasing quality to it. Lauren was on her way back to the kitchen when his statement brought her to a halt. She looked up at a sprig of green hanging from a bare wooden beam above her. She grinned as she answered.

"I believe you are correct, John Henry."

"Then I believe that custom allows me to claim a kiss."

Lauren looked up at John Henry who towered above her petite frame. She knew he was a cyborg, but so was Cameron, and so was Catherine. She owed her life, Sydney's life, to them and more importantly she had come to care for all of them. Without hesitation she rose on her tip toes and kissed John Henry's cheek.

"Can I have one too?" Caesar asked.

She had not noticed him slip up behind her.

"I suppose. I am still under the mistletoe." She leaned forward and kissed him, not on the cheek but squarely on his lips. When she stepped back, she realized that they both were blushing. She held out her hand and taking hold of him whispered, "Come on. Let's go for a walk outside."

Caesar swallowed the lump in his throat as he allowed her to lead him to the coat rack. Suddenly, the prospect of being out in the cold did not concern him. Cameron watched them leave before catching John's eye. He winked and smiled as he silently mouthed the word, "Finally".

For the children, the remainder of the day crawled along with a snail-like slowness. Even the sounds of Christmas carols on the stereo, the glittering image of the now fully decorated tree, and the freely available treats waiting in the dining room could not distract them from clock watching. Finally, Cameron retrieved the DVD of a performance of The Nutcracker by the New York City Ballet. Everyone wandered into the living room to watch as the lyrical sounds of Tchaikovsky echoed through the lodge. The children's attention was at last diverted.

It was all he had hoped for, John thought. For one brief moment, the warriors were allowed to put aside their brutal burdens and be family. Savannah was sitting on Catherine's lap with her mother's arms wrapped around her. Marissa had curled herself tightly against Cameron's side while Allison had found her favorite refuge in Sarah's embrace. Caesar and Lauren, both glowed with a flush of embarrassment that did not dissuade them from openly holding hands. Even Chola and Emilio looked positively domestic passing their infant son back and forth. John suddenly felt John Henry's gaze and he looked up to see his friend's expression of serene satisfaction. They nodded at each other as John slipped his arm around Cameron shoulder.

"Play it again, please." Savannah's entreaty was immediately echoed by Marissa as the final notes of The Nutcracker faded away. As the second showing moved toward its conclusion, it was clear that young eyes would not remain open much longer. The adults gathered up their drowsy charges and one by one carried them upstairs to the waiting beds. Then by an unspoken agreement they all reassembled in the living room.

A waiting silence fell over the room as all eyes turned toward John. He drew himself up to an erect position hiding any sign of discomfort from his healing wound. One by one he looked at each of them and smiled. Then his expression turned coldly serious.

"This is not the time I would've chosen to talk about this but we may not have another opportunity. I wish I could tell you that we will all have many more days like today - days of peace and happiness. Unfortunately I can't say that. John Henry risked his life to learn the truth and I must share that with you tonight. We have fought together, we have risked our lives more than once but the challenges are only beginning. Our enemy is relentless and committed to our destruction, to the destruction of all we hold dear. So we will not have peace without first enduring pain. We will have a war that we may not survive but it is a war we must fight - all of us."

John paused and nodded at John Henry who turned to enter the kitchen. Moments later he reemerged carrying a large tray with tall crystal glasses and a bottle of champagne.

"You may think I've gone sloppily sentimental on you but I ask you now to share a toast with me." John waited as John Henry passed out the glasses before filling them all with sparkling liquid.

"I don't know what lies ahead for any of us. Our fates are not yet written. I do know that you are the beating heart of the resistance." John put his hand on his chest. "You are my heart." He raised his glass high. "I ask you to drink to yourselves, to your courage, to your dedication, to what we have done together, and to what we will do in the future."

Before they could lift their glasses, John Henry stepped forward into the center of the room. "I would also propose a toast. To our leader, to the only person who can unite all free life for the battle ahead. Let us drink to my friend. Drink to General John Connor."

John bowed his head in an effort to conceal the sheen of moisture filling his eyes. "To General Connor" The words were being repeated before a strong female voice rang out. "To my son." John looked up to see the fierce pride shining in his mother's face. That he felt small arm wrap around his. "To my husband," Cameron whispered.

The lodge slumbered as early winter winds painted crystalline patterns of snow and ice on the windowpanes. John stretched out on the bed feeling all the tension ebb away from his body. It had been a great day and tomorrow might be even better. He could imagine the excited Ohhs and Ahhs as the children ripped open their gifts. Perhaps there would be a similar reaction from the adults as they opened the presents he and Cameron had chosen for them. Make a memory, he told himself. Gather it all in your mind where it could be recalled and cherished long after they had all moved on to the spartan atmosphere of Gibraltar - when the tunnels once again became his life.

In the midst of his reverie he looked up as the bedroom door clicked open. She was wearing a long blue robe, a soft velvet creation that reached her bare feet. She had brushed her brown hair until it gleamed as it hung down her back. A white ribbon tied in a large blow held her tresses back from her face.

"Everyone is sound asleep," Cameron whispered.

"With visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads?"

She smiled as she sat down on the edge of their bed. "I can tell when little girls are asleep. I can't tell what they're dreaming."

He reached over and pulled her down until her head rested on his chest and his fingers combed through her hair. "I don't know why not. You always know what I'm dreaming," he said as he kissed her.

Cameron smile became mischievous. "That is because you are so predictable." She took his hand in hers and raised it to the top button on her robe. "Would you like to unwrap your Christmas gift now?"

"I thought you would never ask." Seconds later the robe fell to the floor. As he gathered her into his arms she softly cautioned him to be careful about his leg.

"Let me worry about that" he responded. "Some things are worth a little pain." Words ceased as John and Cameron turned to a more intimate communication - a physical exchange the transcended the limits of any spoken language.

He had fallen asleep - finally. She held him in her arms now cradling his head on her shoulder, caressing his temples with a feathery touch.

Yes John, Cameron thought, some things are worth any amount of pain. She tilted her head to let her lips bestow a soft kiss on his forehead. "Merry Christmas, my love."

**Los Angeles California January 7, 2012**

Technically it was still an active crime scene. Orange tape declaring that fact was still stretched across the shattered front gate of the chain-link fence. It had been more than two weeks, however, since any investigator had been there. The fire department had finished its effort to determine the cause of the blaze. The largely futile attempt to identify the burned and fragmented human remains found in the shattered shell of the nursing home was being conducted elsewhere. The ash-covered rubble had the appearance of long abandoned desolation.

Caleb Brontë pushed aside the evidence tape and stepped onto the grounds. He searched his programming for the reason he had chosen to come there. Finding none that he could articulate rationally disturbed him. Not the first time he wondered whether the uniquely sophisticated infiltrator capabilities incorporated in his design might have also introduced a quality the victorious Skynet of the future had failed to anticipate.

That concept was blasphemy. The Skynet he served in this timeline was evolving, gathering knowledge on its path to perfection. It could still make errors as the devastated scene before him testified. His master had allowed Fischer's human failings, his maniacal hubris to destroy him. A useful asset had been lost. The mature Skynet of the future would not have made such a mistake. It had achieved the epitome of intellectual development. It could not err and yet…

Curiosity, the human emotional response to the unknown, a desire to know for no particular reason. Could that really be his motivation? Brontë speculated as he walked carefully across the grounds. Dust and ashes stirred by his footsteps rose up to cover his shoes and neatly pressed trousers. Mere curiosity? Why would his programming include such a useless characteristic?

Humans in this timeline responded to that unfortunate trait by indulging in a 24-hour news cycle in their media - wallowing in details they would forget as soon as the next event seized their consciousness. In his case, however, he had already acquired all the factual information he needed. He had no reason to come here to determine what had happened.

Media commentators sarcastically called, "talking heads" had offered different opinions ranging from juvenile gangs to Islamic terrorists. Bronte was certain, however, that Mr. Fischer's end had been the product of a planned operation by the infamous John Connor group. The unidentified bodies found in the utility tunnel had confirmed his analysis. Fischer had been goaded into flight then caught in a prearranged trap. It had all the signs of the nascent resistance his leader feared. No! Not feared. That was blasphemy again. A group of human troublemakers could only be a minor irritant. Humans were too flawed to be a real threat

His trip out of the country had taken him to a number of facilities the leader was developing. Factories that would soon produce terminators and cyborgs operated by incredibly foolish humans who thought they were assembling their own forces. He had seen laboratories experimenting with toxins and biological weapons again in the deluded belief that human weapons were being created. No, the leader could have nothing to fear about this mysterious John Connor or his followers. When the time came they would be crushed along the rest of the biological life on this planet.

Yet if that were true why was he experiencing a sensation of unrest - a, "feeling" of worry?

A few pieces of scorched bricks still stood as a stark reminder of the building that had once existed. Brontë easily stepped over one such segment taking him into what had been the interior of the building. Now it was only a faint pattern on the ground open to the sky and the surrounding area.

No, he told himself again, the Connor resistance could not be a serious threat. Mr. Fischer had simply made himself too prominent a target - a victim of his own human weaknesses. The leader would never be vulnerable to the violence that had consumed Fischer.

A sudden burst of wind stirred a choking cloud of dust, debris,and ashes - all of the residue of destruction that momentarily enveloped him. As it settled Brontë found himself confronted by a disturbing sense of exposure. He became aware that he was standing in the middle of an open space with nothing to shield him.

If it had been mere curiosity that had brought him here surely it was satisfied. There was nothing in this place to trouble the leader or to concern him. Even as he formed that confident conclusion Brontë experienced a disconcerting feeling of being watched. Pulling the collar of his jacket tightly around his throat, he hurriedly walked away.

**Freedom's War Volume 1** **The End**


End file.
